


Kisses For The Beast

by doreah



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, Character Death Fix, Depression, Dothraki, Dragons, Essos, F/F, Fix-It, Freedom, Future Fic, Hallucinations, Past Abuse, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Post-Season/Series 02, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sex Work, Slavery, Spoilers, Starvation, Triggers, hybrid universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 00:05:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 46,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1798246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doreah/pseuds/doreah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being found on the Dothraki Sea by a sworn enemy, Dany is taken prisoner and forced to confront bitter memories, difficult people, and haunting choices from her long-lost past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tolui

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in a hybrid universe somewhere between TV!canon and book!canon. It's basically where the series COULD go with this storyline since everything is so random now anyway. There are only vague, basic spoilers for ADWD (Dany's final chapter, basically) and relies entirely on the events in S2.
> 
> There are many Dothraki words used, both preexisting and invented by me. I can include translations at the end if needed, but I feel as if they are fairly obvious. I tried to stick as close to the existing concepts of the Dothraki, as limited as they are but I had to expand and hopefully fix some of the issues. Concrit is welcome, as this will likely always be something of a work-in-progress.
> 
> You can find graphics, fanmixes, and fic snippets, as well as casting ideas, [here at my tumblr](http://doreahology.tumblr.com/tagged/k4tb). Note: It contains spoilers (some big ones perhaps) for later in the story.
> 
> [A quick language guide for some of the terms used here](http://pasted.co/a6ecf3ebd). Many but not all are from [this Dothraki dictionary](https://docs.dothraki.org/ikarhtoD.pdf).

It had been many days since the scouts had first glanced to the sky to see a black beast circling above. They had returned with stories of dragons and fire and white ghosts in the grasslands. Each evenfall, another would ride back to the _khalasar_ and the whispers would spread like brushfires around the cooking pits. Women and men alike spoke of the horrors of the ancient beasts of the sky. Children cowered in fear and listened, their eyes wide and white with both intrigue and terror.

Some said the beast was as big as 10 of the greatest horses. Some said it was twice that. Others said it blocked out the very sun itself. Very little was heard from the _khal_ but his _ko_ s spoke more freely. The great _khal_ would slay the beast, they said with certainty. Indeed, he was the bravest man of all. No other _khal_ would be able to challenge his claim with the skin of the dragon around his shoulders and a _sondra_ necklace of obsidian teeth adorning his neck.

The young boys swarmed around the riders like little flies, begging for tales of this ferocious beast and how they would fell it. Yeo, a small boy of near eleven namedays and ragged dark hair, screeched with pleasure at such stories and raised his bow over his head, cheering for the _kos_ : Varo, Qaharah, Luko, and the rest. With the reckless and ignorant bravado of youth, the boys pretended to be hunters themselves and stormed the unsuspecting sleeping tents, arrows drawn and wooden _arakh_ s raised, frightening the women and elderly with their screams for _zhavvorsa_ blood. They ran off laughing and hooting as irate adults swatted them away. There were many beatings but the boys took them with pride. In their world, this was merely the price of victory and they wore their deep purple bruises like a bloodrider wears a battlescar.

 

The thirst for dragon’s blood permeated the entire _khalasar_ in those days, not merely amongst the jubilant cries of young boys.

Everyone wanted to see the dragon. Everyone wanted to see the dead dragon. Tolui herself even lusted for the day the _khal_ would return with the heavy head of the great fearsome monster in his arms. Beside him, her Varo would be glazed with black blood and sweat. Such brave men.

Excitement rushed through slaves and warriors alike. The anticipation of Khal Jhaqo’s hunt overshadowed all other problems, all other talk. At every sup, it was on the tongues of each man, woman, and child. All except one. She was tall and lithe, adorned with pink scars and long chestnut hair. Her blue eyes narrowed at the talk of killing dragons. But no one paid her any mind. The lack of Dothraki in her blood meant she was just an ignorant slave. Tolui often wondered why anyone would not want a _zhavvorsa_ dead. When many had lived, Essos was always aflame. From the dark lands to the East of the Great Grass Sea to the white cliffs of the Free Cities along the Narrow Sea, there was always a place on fire. The old stories told of times when her people lived in a constant fear much greater than now. Dragons ruthlessly hunted the Dothraki by day and the people trembled by night, always alert, always terrified. Legends spoke of ghastly pale riders of these monsters, as bloodthirsty and mad as their beastly mounts and how one day they would return to wipe all Dothraki away, leaving only ghost grass behind. The world would end that way.

But Tolui did not need old myths and prophecies to be afraid. It was known that not so long ago, the dragon fire roasted whole families alive and burnt entire _khalasars_ to ash in moments, leaving nothing but charred homes and the agonizing screams of the half-burnt and slowly dying. Her people had to adopt a life on the run from the beasts that knew nothing of fear or mercy. They had been a strong people before, deadly and courageous warriors but the _zhavvorsa_ forced further change over the many generations. Swifter horses, stronger bows, larger migrations, harsher discipline, more hardened men and women in the face of such immeasurable suffering. Braver men. Often times, new slaves captured from other lands would call her _savage_ with much disgust but Tolui could not understand what was savage about wanting to live. Those filthy slaves and their harsh words were usually killed quickly. The _zhavvorsa_ made them this way, she knew. Any other choice was fire and horrible death.

Did this _tokik_ not realise what horror even one dragon would bring?

When she approached the other girl with her question, the response was chillingly cold. _I know too well. But it is another_ _zhavvorsa_ _I would rather see dead_. No one bothered questioning that. She was most certainly mad.

 

Dawn came slowly; its purple and orange glow inching above the horizon at a snail’s pace. Birds began to sing in the gnarled saxaul trees around them and the gentle morning breeze rustled the long grasses against each other in an accompanying rhythm. It was the sound of beginnings and Tolui paced nervously outside her _okre_. Everyone in the _khalasar_ was already gathered outside, around glowing firepits and crowded together against the chill of the waning cold night.

They all waited.

Deep purples turned to pinks to oranges as the sun rose higher. A good omen, it was said. Bells would ring by evenfall. Tolui's black hair rustled in the breeze, and with each breath of wind, she would narrow her dark brown eyes towards the horizon. Yeo fidgeted, idly snapping his bowstring repeatedly until his mother smacked him with it. Hushed voices floated between bodies, snaking their secrets through the crowds. A tug on Tolui’s skirt caused her to turn, and her mother yanked on her to sit. She complied, moving her attention to the sky above wishing for a glimpse of the black dragon.

This was like no other raid. This would be the hunt to end all hunts, they said. No other _khalasar_ would dare to threaten them again. Women sat, whispering prayers into their hands. Men sat, quietly chanting Dothraki war mantras amongst themselves. Tolui and the children just watched and waited anxiously.

It began as a distant rumble. Growing tremors bounced pebbles and stones about on the hard, dry earth. The larks ceased their songs of dawn’s praise and great flocks took flight like a swarm of miniature dragons. Yeo drew an arrow and fired, bringing one down and scrambling off to grab it with a scream of glory. Tolui watched the birds twirl against the morning light as the ground began to shake harder. Thunder rushed forth and a great cloud of dust billowed in the near distance. The whinnying of mighty horses drowned out voices around her and she searched the crowds around her for her friends, seeing Laha and her family watching with equal rapture at the coming parade.

A few well-armoured scouts rushed ahead of the column breaking through the throngs of curious onlookers with little care. Their grand bows, polished and new, glistened in the twilight glow. Cheers of the common people and slaves alike greeted them. They chanted of victory and heroes, for blood, for protection. Soon after, the great sound of a hundred heavy hooves rattled the earth with such ferocity that tents tumbled over and cooking pots rattled like the frightened bones of great iron beasts. Winds came up wildly as the mighty _khal_ and his glorious _kos_ burst through the haze of dust.

Astride a huge black stallion sat Khal Jhaqo as he towered over the people. Nothing was on his face except unwavering confidence and lust for blood, as if the air around his body was a cloak of fearlessness itself. Each of his many tattoos seemed to come alive as his muscles rippled under his skin with every proud movement. Although brutal, he truly was an imposing warrior and deserving of his title. Beside her, Tolui’s sister Mishi drew in a deep fluttering breath as his _kos_ , and her favoured one Yollo, rode by, flanking the _khal_ on all sides, their shining _arakh_ s blinding the slaves with the new sun’s reflection.

 _Zheana_ , she breathed. They were beautiful men. And then Tolui saw Varo, proudly mounted on his dark ochre horse. There was only a quick glance at her from his deep brown eyes, but it was enough. The young slave eagerly shouted her blessing to him and hoped it reached his ears despite the deafening roar of horses hooves and rousing cheers. All around her, the voices of men and women rose in praise of their screamers, their valiant protectors against the _zhavvorsa_. Mishi was weeping with gratitude --or perhaps fear-- as the column rode on, covering them all in dirt and errant horsehair.

Then faster than it had begun, it was over. The riders faded into the distance and their sound dulled to a low growl, then to nothing. The wait would start over.

 

 

By the time the sun was bearing down hard from its highest peak in the sky, the anticipation had died out and only a few younger children were still waiting. Life must go on in the _khalasar_ , regardless of what histories were being made elsewhere. Tolui tossed a mended slipper onto the growing pile to her right. She and some of the other women were stitching diligently, repairing shoes that had been worn to holes by the dry, rugged grasslands. Her best friend Laha was to her left, babbling about some uninteresting tale of cats and water and the way Hrako wrestled the great beast into a pond. Laha said a lot of things. Most of them were not true. It was just that Laha liked to talk and was always searching for news no one else had heard before. But even she had no story about black dragons.

This was how the hours passed. Womantalk continued well into the dimming afternoon light and Tolui grew tired of the same stories and the same bickering over who said what and who did what. Long days like this were always tedious, especially when the riders were away.

 

At first, she thought she was merely dozing off and dreaming of the clatter of hooves on soil. Yet looking around she saw other faces slowly coming to the same awareness. They were returning! Half-sewn slippers lay discarded beside wooden seats. Cooking pots were left unattended, their contents destined to boil and burn into inedible black pastes whilst the abandoned meat of horses and rabbits sizzled on spits. Leathers soaked and shrunk in washbasins. Saws and hammers clanged together, forgotten inside workshops. It was as if the entire _khalasar_ had fled in light of another approaching raiding party. Khal Pono, perhaps. The tales of him were getting more fearsome each moon. Except this time, the crowds upon crowds of eager Dothraki were not running frightened like antelope. The energy was excited and already cheers of victory were being heard throughout the mass even though all they could see was a rolling cloud of sand and dust far in the distance.

The voices swelled the closer the riders came.

 _Rai, rai_! Shouts of joy that would sound angry to anyone who did not understand the words echoed across the plains. _Rai, rai_!

With a mean scowl, Tolui desperately elbowed her way through the wall of sun-bronzed bodies, pinching and pushing hard at unyielding fat men and shoving weaker children carelessly aside in her haste. She had to make sure The Great Stallion returned her beloved free of harm. Glancing sideways, she saw little Yeo and many other slaves she recognized awaiting the arrival of the warriors. Everyone was focused on that building sandstorm.

Bells rang loudly when the riders were almost upon them. But something was wrong. It appeared that one horse and scout was missing, but moreso, there was the dragon…

Screams shook her ears painfully as women and children noticed the huge black monster lazily flying above the riders. It was not dead; it was hunting them! And they had brought it home! Suddenly waves of people of all sorts were shrieking ‘ _Zhavvorsa_!’and pushing each other aside, running from the sight and into the shelter of their flammable tents. Tolui stood fast to her place, watching to see which rider had not returned but her knees shook and her fingers trembled so violently that she had to clench them into fists by her side. Every hair on her head felt as if it was reaching for escape and the chill that ran through her body at the sight of the massive flying beast made her weak even in her heart. Where there had once been a thick river of bodies, only a few remained. Some young boys who still knew too little of life to be afraid, Haga the wrinkled old barren woman, a few nosy older girls, Mishi’s friends who cared more for womantalk than their own lives, Tolui and the scarred slave who watched the approach with such calmness that she must be _toki_.

But there was no fire.

As Khal Jhaqo rode up to them, he dumped a large sack in front of Tolui and Haga. Hard black eyes bore down on her with a silent command and she nodded fearfully before he continued on. The _zhavvorsa_ landed with a shuddering thump nearby and she could vaguely hear the creak of arrows being nocked and pulled, the smooth music of _arakh_ s being drawn as men surrounded it. It gave her little comfort. It could burn them all in moments. Haga pushed both she and the _tokik_ towards the package. Tentatively, Tolui pulled at an edge of the coarse, wet blanket away. First there was blood—so much of it—and then the foul stench of burnt horseflesh and human disease, so strong that the young girl had to hold back her retching.

Then she saw it: A small woman with sickly pale skin and hair like ghost grass.


	2. Daenerys

He stood taller than she remembered, bulkier and more fearsome. Khal Jhaqo found her in the long green grass of the Dothraki Sea, pulling charred horsemeat away from the bone with her teeth. But Drogon remained at her side as he crunched the bones of a horse from his early evenfall hunt like a warning, or an omen of certain death. But the _khal_ could have grown another thirty hands and still be of no threat to her fireborn child.

 _A thousand Dothraki could not bring down one dragon_ , Dany presumed and Khal Jhaqo’s _khalasar_ did not worry her despite having many more thousands of men at his command. A dragon was a sight to behold regardless, and although it was known that brave men killed dragons in Dothraki fables, she did not suspect the _khal_ would be impulsive in that regard. Truly brave men –and women– rode dragons. He maintained a fearsome reputation but now so did she: a sacker of cities, a freer of slaves, a dragon rider; an arsonist, a murderer, a _conqueror_.

It had been years upon years since leaving the port of Qarth and much had happened in that time. From wars and conflicts with the Yunkai, amongst others, to her beloved dragons growing fearsome and strong, she had experienced far more than she had initially meant to do. She often considered how long ago it was that she had assumed taking Westeros would be quick, and almost painless. How horrible a lesson her erroneous thinking had been. Now, in the open Dothraki Sea, she found herself back where she had begun except this time the _khal_ was not her arranged husband, and without Drogon by her side, she would certainly have been slaughtered already for her refusal, all those years ago, to join the crones in the _dosh khaleen_ at Vaes Dothrak.

Seeing his face only reignited the wrath she had once promised him in Eroeh’s name but she would have to bide her time, not only because of his army of ruthless bloodriders, but also her spreading weakness. Whatever illness had thrown itself upon her during her journey was coming to a head slowly and surely. She could not feel fever, nor felt sweat on her brow, but she was aware that being the blood of the dragon could mask these symptoms.

It was not the bloody flux. It could not be. She would not let it be. Those berries, those hard green pebbles of poison. _It was them_. It was her moon blood. _So much blood_. She shuddered, feeling the lingering memory of such crippling cramps. They had been the usual sort, only more intense. Until they shifted.

There was no way she had done so much in so many years only to be felled by disease. It was no way for the Last of the Targaryens to die. Simply, it was unacceptable to her and to the legacy of her family. She would live to see the Iron Throne once again graced with a Targaryen. She must.

However, a strength of will alone would not be adequate defense against the evils of the plague, or any illness. Her weak state allowed Khal Jhaqo to bestow upon her some modicum of mercy, as unlikely as that was for a mighty _khal_. Her only reprieve came in the form of Jhaqo never seeing the nightly flight Drogon took back to his liar for two days. So far, he had returned before daybreak and none of the other slaves had breathed a word of this to the _khal_. Perhaps Drogon was enough to keep the screamers at bay for the time being. In the _khalasar_ , she was given a mat in a slave family’s _okre_ on the outskirts—nothing like her quarters as Drogo’s bride and the discomfort she felt there was unfamiliar. She had been too long in the manses and cottages of lords and conquerors. Even as a Dothraki, this arrangement was foreign to her.

She loathed everything about her situation but could find no energy within her bones to argue. Not even the whisper of a threat could make it past her tongue.

Leaving Drogon unattended frightened her far more however. He was within earshot, and if she left the ragged curtain open, she could see him clearly but one poke from an insolent child or arrogant warrior could send him into a frenzy and speak of both their downfalls. Without command, he would be reckless and uncoordinated against an army, she surmised. And without Drogon, she was helpless. It sickened her to think of how powerless she had suddenly become. Nothing more than a leech of her dragon’s ferocity. But perhaps that’s all she had ever been: a beggar queen with a fearsome child. It hadn’t been she who was getting the respect; it had been her dragons. They had made all the difference, and even one fully grown, inherently dangerous beast was enough to scare the Dothraki warriors as she remained essentially just a sickly prisoner; Drogon alone garnered her no power here, only suspicion and fear.

From her skint, windswept hut, she could smell memories: the dew of morning on the rustling _hranna_ , the fragrance of meadok flower dust carried on the wind, the sweat of stallions, men and horse alike. And then there was the spicy, pungent aroma of _khashcal_ bubbling away on the bonfires and the blood--the foetor of the Dothraki way of war. Each scent brought with it nostalgia and melancholy of a time that seemed so far lost to the past it was almost unrecognisable. At multiple points she considered that perhaps _these_ were the smells of home, that home wasn’t some strange land across the Narrow Sea. Perhaps her life was not meant for thrones of iron and riches and splendor. After all, she had not been truly happy for many years, and even when she experienced flashes of delight and hope, they had been fleeting. Most things had just gone wrong.

She was a queen now, as she had been once before taking the title of _khaleesi_. From her throne in Meereen she commanded men as her brother, Viserys, could only have dreamt of. Still, his goal and her destiny felt so far away, especially now, back where she began in the Dothraki Sea.

The slave women that shared her tent remained wary of the poorly and eerily pale girl in their midst. Only one ever spoke to her occasionally and it was with a great deal of added distress that Dany realised her grasp of Dothraki had lapsed considerably. These were not her people anymore. She was not their _khaleesi_. She was a stranger, an intruder. They did not want her here.

The gamey taste of horsemeat did little to ease her digestion, which itself had taken a turn for the worse. She nibbled at smoked hide, forced herself to gulp down the water, but only when the old barren woman brought her an ochre-coloured tea of mint, goldencup and sourleaf did she feel anything close to decent health (and human kindness). However, as the plants’ effects began to wane, so did her spirit. She rested fitfully and was plagued with nightmares and visions of horrors she had never even seen, alongside painful memories of those she had.

 

At some point, in between visions of fire lapping at her toes and snow fluttering over her shoulders, she recalled loud shouting. Angry words were exchanged and her Drogon let out a mighty, ear-shattering scream. Dany leapt off her bedroll and stumbled disoriented and panicked towards the exit. Her haste set her head into spins and she collapsed in the doorway, only able to squint against the dying sunlight as her dragon took flight and left her, helpless and dying on the Great Grass Sea, surrounded by furious warriors and frightened slaves.

That night, Khal Jhaqo entered the _okre_ , his manhood bulging erect under his medallion-studded leather belt and what she would have deemed a smirk had it been on anyone else’s face. It sent chills through her hot blood and a fear settled around her that she had not known before. He would not be like Drogo, her sun and stars; he was a monster. With a few brusque commands, the other women departed quickly, leaving her alone with the _khal_ , mighty as he claimed to be.

She was weak. The ravages of hunger and illness were taking their toll and she could barely raise her face to stare at him. Taking it as a sign on insolence, he grabbed the queen by her silver hair and wrenched her face upwards to look upon him. She did so only from under hooded eyelids. Any more effort was too much. She merely closed her eyes slowly when he let her go and ripped at her skirts. She could not fight, not in this state.

Perhaps the gods had been smiling upon her somehow because the moment his fingers touched her bare thigh, he snatched his hand back as if he had been burned by her skin. It was stinging hot to the touch although no hint of fever was visible: no sweat, no flushing. She was impervious to heat and the outward symptoms of fever were made invisible. Cursing at her, as if it had been her doing, he reached out to hit her across the head. Something caused him to pause however, and drop his hand before doing so. 

“ _Maegi mel_!” he shouted at her, spittle flecking her cheek. She did not flinch. “ _Maegi_!” he exclaimed again, an air of revulsion in his tone, before he turned and stormed from the tent. There were words circling around her, harsh and critical. She could not make out their meaning from within the fog of illness, but it would not be favourable for her she knew.

Soon enough, the women that shared her hut reentered. Without speaking, they pulled her up onto her feet where she teetered precariously, ripped her mat from the dirt floor and pushed her outside. It took two of the strongest ones to drag her beyond the fences and drop her and her sleeping mat in the grass. She did not resist or argue, collapsing with relief onto the cool ground. They had left her for the feral dogs.

 

Days and nights blossomed and faded and still no dogs came around. She was kept warm in the bitter, cold nights by the heat of fever boiling inside her body. Under the vigorous penetration of the midday sun, she basked. Nothing was too hot for a dragon, and that is what Khal Jhaqo did not realise. The _khalasar_ had remained in place for some time and Dany knew that it could be any day when they would mount again and leave her here alone. She was of no use in her current state.

It was under the shade of evenfall sometime into her exile that she heard the pattering of feet. They were large, no small dog. She saw them then, large wolves, larger than she had ever imagined one to be with fearsome teeth and glowing eyes. The white one towered above her, familiar and unperturbed by the stench of death hanging on her bones. It did not growl at all, its red eyes instead searching as if there was a question it was asking of her. She struggled to gaze upon it but faltered with the distraction of others. Grey, white, black, tawny. Fur all around her, brushing her, soothing her skin with the cold winds of winter. Again, the red eyes found hers and inside them was fire. The gentle rolling glow of embers gave rise to flames licking at the spirit inside. She gasped and as if breaking the spell, they disappeared into the dusk.

Was it delirium? She had lost the ability to separate reality from dreams and her mind lacked the desire to try. Perhaps a tear should have fallen at the loneliness that crept over her then, but it never materialised. Instead, the queen sighed and gave into sleep.

Again, the visions came of past mistakes and novel prophecies. The grasses sneered their secrets whilst the insects marched over her skin thrumming with blame. Thick with feverish nightmares, she was struggling to maintain her grip on her own mind. Then a face crowded out the stars and the demons. It hovered above her, draped in a mask of worn and frayed sandsilk. The eyes were blue. So very blue. She thought first of her lover Daario but these were even more striking.

“Take this,” the face said in the Common Tongue as a cup was placed on her lips. The sound was familiar but muffled. Much of the offering dribbled out, down her cheeks. The taste was not unpleasant, but it was not recognisable as any Dothraki medicine she had known. But then, very little about existence these days was recognisable as the Dothraki way of life she had known. As the liquid drenched her tongue, she found her voice again, rough and raw, but present.

“What is it?” she asked the hallucination. It was the first question she had dared ask since landing in the grasslands. The silk-covered face seemed to smile, the sort that was seen in the eyes. That was Dany’s only place to look.

“Root of the kapok tree, Daenerys Stormborn.”

The decoction settled into her stomach and she looked towards the cup for more and was rewarded with a second large helping, draining it until it was empty. A wisp of silk brushed her lips, cleaning away the spill. “You know my name?”

A smile formed in the blue eyes again and Dothraki words came forth. “It is known.”

It was difficult for Dany to tease apart her emotions as they cascaded over her. There was relief, and shock, and an overwhelming urge to weep. Then there was sadness because she knew then that her mind was playing tricks. This apparition was no more then her own doing. Of course it would know her name. She had not forgotten that as of yet. As if the effort of considering this distraction alone was too much to maintain her vision, it faded and she was left with nothing but the chirping of meadow insects and the falling stars of night.

She wept then, without knowing why. Her tears tasted like the ocean she had sailed on so many years ago. 

 

 

It was during the first blush of daybreak that she felt the presence again. It was around her somewhere but the restful slumber that she had succumbed to many hours prior was not eager to let her slip away. The sky was just beginning to colour a faint pink against deep purple horizon as she forced her eyelids open to peer at her surroundings. It smelt of dogs’ breath and her body was damp with a glistening of dew from the cool night. Her body retched and her muscles complaining as she attempted to move. It was no use. It was foolish to believe imaginary tea was an omen of improving health.

 _Even if my illness subsides, what then?_ she wondered. Surely Khal Jhaqo would finish what he began; kill her, exile her to Vaes Dothrak, or simply she would be taken as a prisoner-slave and bound to this _khalasar_ , if not his bed,for life – and not as a _khaleesi_. Her revenge on him would be a long time hence, if at all. Her desire for ascent to the throne seemed a vague memory. 

But what was her alternate choice? To give up and die, useless and alone in an empty meadow? _Death or slavery._ There appeared to be nothing else. If she hadn’t succumbed yet, there must be a reason for her continued life. She would not give that up under any circumstances. Where there was life, there was hope. If she could have nothing else, she would still have that. 

Dany craned her neck around to stare at the rising sun. Spirits of morning seemed to dance in the _hranna_ at twilight and seeds and dust swirled like fresh magic around her. Wind swept grasses bent and whistled in greeting of the first light. Perfume from opening flowers tickled her nostrils and she inhaled deeply, thankful for the beauty of the open air. The moment lasted but briefly as those friendly spirits shifted shape into shadows and hung over her, taunting her inability to move. Their voices rasped inside the tall grass around her which was now moving as if the blades were a single entity slinking towards her and she grew frightened by their menace. The lingering fingers of night pricked at her hot skin, poking and jabbing her into submission. She couldn’t twist away and their laughter carried over in the voices of insistent magpies and sturns. Shuddering not from cold, she squeezed her eyes closed, trying to block out the cacophony.

She saw her visitor again there in the darkness. The same ragged silk hung across her face, but the dawn ignited her blue eyes into shimmering blue pools like the lagoons around Braavos. A mug was held out to her again, and she sipped hungrily at the tea.

“You must eat now,” a voice said in rough Dothraki. It sounded like dear, sweet Irri and Dany wondered fearfully if her mind was playing tricks.

 _Was she the angel sent to bring me to the night lands?_ Dany wondered _. Was it time?_ For the first time in what felt like weeks, she recognised a hurt other than her bowels or head. It was in her heart and it was aching terribly for her loyal handmaid. She reached up to pull at the silk of her dark angel but the vision flitted just out of reach. This time the eyes were brown and kind.

“Irri, _please_ , not yet,” she whispered hoarsely and desperately, tossing the rest of the cup of tea aside. It rolled back towards her, the brew seeping into the soil around her.

“Eat, my beautiful queen,” another voice said, much deeper and rough. _Jorah_. Ser Jorah, her exiled knight, her unrepentant betrayor. _Not him too. He shouldn’t be in the Night Lands_. “You must.”

“No!” she cried, lashing out at the blurs with unknown strength. “I won’t, ser! Don’t take me there!” She wept harder, thrashing about on the worn mat as all the _hranna_ surrounding her bowed inwards, threatening and covering up the impending daylight glow.

A cackle came forth from behind her. “Come now, sweet sister. You don’t want to wake the dragon, do you?” Viserys! She screamed at him to keep away, she cried that she had not meant to wake the dragon, pleading as she once did as a young girl at the fall of his fists. 

The spectres bombarded her with taunts, especially Viserys, his cruel gleam of a smile stretching wide and venomously across his face. Around him hung the _maegi_ , and Rhaego with Doreah—grinning and calling out, her lost son whimpering in her arms for his mother. There were so many, many faces of those whose deaths she had orchestrated, nameless masses, children, women, men. All by her will and command. Then beside her brother, a tall, beautiful warrior glowered down, his braid long and his scars painfully familiar.

“ _Jada,_ _jalan atthirari anni.”_

And then Dany wailed, a long, mournful sound that echoed over the plains and out into the dry Sea. How could she refuse her sun and stars?

The silk face appeared, blocking out the ghosts of death. “You must eat, Queen of Meereen.” The ghosts clamoured around, outraged, behind this image of sad, imploring eyes and gradually began to fade. She wished to call out to Drogo, to keep him with her if she was to make this journey but she could no longer hear nor see anyone except this one. _Such comforting eyes_ , Dany thought. Silently, they spoke of love and trust.

The food was strange and stank of wretched things and she gagged on the odour alone. Pushing back against the hallucination, she thrashed again, fighting against whatever the poison was as it came closer to her mouth. A weight suffocated her in her weakness, sitting heavy on her chest until she could scarcely breathe without wheezing. The warmth came before the foul taste and immediately she knew what was being fed to her. Putrid excrement smeared across her lips as she snapped her mouth shut against the fresh horse droppings. The wraith did not cease and pushed down harder on her chest until she choked and tears leapt free of her eyes, careening down her cheeks as she desperately gasped for breath, only to find her open mouth stuffed full of more shit. A strong hand clamped down, preventing her spiting up until she swallowed.

It was _horrid_. The queen’s stomach heaved and cramped as her throat constricted, acrid bile pushed up into her mouth. It was far worse than the gristle and thick musculature of a horse heart. She would gladly eat a thousand hearts in place of one more mouthful of warm dung. Nausea threatened to overtake her but before she could retch, those familiar hands held her jaws closed and forced her to reswallow. And they held her until the next mouthful came. All she could see was silk and blue and brown, a frightful blur of hope and vengeance. 

Suddenly the air cleared and her friendly ghost was sat on the grass, calmly pouring a cup of kapok root tea. Its fingers were covered in feces but the bowl was empty.

“Now, _iddeli_ ,” the voice said softly, almost regretfully. “You must rid your tongue of the taste or else it will come up again.” As she drank, silk brushed once again along her cheeks, wiping free the stains of tears.

“This will cure the sickness?”

“ _Me nem nesa_.”

Dany gulped down the cooled tea greedily. She could feel her strength returning, even if it was merely a trick of her mind for the time being. It was better than rotting alive. She closed her eyes in relief, the cup falling from her thin fingers. When she opened them again, everything was gone and she wished for her visions to return. At least she did not feel so lonely when they haunted her. Far above, there was a screech and she squinted up, praying to the gods to see her dragon. It was merely a hawk circling. She hoped she was not its next prey. 

At midday she had been surprised when one of the young girls from the _khalasar_ approached her cautiously with a flask of water. Looking warily over the strange looking woman writhing in the sunshine, she dumped it quickly just within Dany’s outstretched reach and fled back to the safety of the village. It was like drinking life itself. By late afternoon, she yearned desperately for more but was still too weak to stand and walk back to the _khalasar_.

The blue hour came and for the first time she felt a chill from the restless winds sweeping across the plains. Her thirst was driving her mad and her impotence even more so. Shadows frolicked in her periphery, dancing their homage to the night gods that were fast approaching. Another shudder crept down her spine. With her fever breaking at last, the delusions of safety had faded and she was becoming more acutely aware of the dangers of sleeping so prone in the open. Perhaps the smell of the bloody flux had kept the feral dogs at bay. They would soon return with its passing.

In the dark sky above her, a few wisps of clouds shrouded the waxing moon but otherwise it remained crisp and clear. Stars began to poke out, reminding her and comforting her with Drogo’s tales of their meaning. She imagined the brightest one was him, on his stallion of fire, galloping across the sky and keeping watch over her. She wondered if his beckoning the previous night had been even a command to join him at all. _Come and eat, moon of my life_ , he could have meant. She hoped that was the true.

She heard the sounds before she saw the cause. There were no direwolves tonight, only her imaginary companion with kapok root tea and a full bladder of water. Suddenly the night was not so cold.

 

 

As her health returned with each passing day and night, questions began to plague Dany incessantly. Even though she could sit upright and walk short distances again, she was still left alone with her thoughts for the majority of the day. Occasionally one of the young girls from the _khalasar_ would toss a flask of water, and now _hranna_ rolls and berries, in her direction, although her imaginary friend no longer visited her. That was what she missed about the fever. Still, every so often, she would wake to find dried horsemeat and root tea beside her. One of the barren women must also know of the cure it contained. She appreciated the concern.

But as she grew stronger, her fate became more questionable. Would Khal Jhaqo take her as a concubine? A slave? Or drag her to Vaes Dothrak? Or would he put her to death for going against the _dosh khaleen_? She knew he would not have forgotten the sacking of the Lhazareen village, and the shame she had brought upon him when she as a _khaleesi_ had commanded him to cease raping the women, and also the shame she had brought Drogo, at the hand of the _maegi_. It was impossible to determine what mindset he would have, but seeing as he was a true warrior, the best she could plead for is to become a slave. Was it even a choice when forced to pick life or death? Eventually the _khal_ would call her back from these open lands; she could see the _khalasar_ beginning to pack up. It would be no longer than a day or two before they were to move on. If she couldn’t walk long distances by then, she would be left along the way to starve to death or be eaten alive by dogs. There would be no horse for her to mount.

 

 

When the moon was highest in the sky and the stars burned brightest, her dreams returned and with them, her helper in the mask.

“Are you well?” it asked her. How had she not noticed the feminine voice before? It was irritatingly familiar and she dove through her memories trying to match the muffled sound with a face. All that matched it was a feeling of guilt, burrowing deep into her gut. That would not do.

Dany nodded with certainty. She felt much better, except at night when the damp cold of open grasslands swept in. Even the occasional dry cold was not any better.

“I am. Thank you.” She was glad that her imagination chose the Common Tongue tonight.

There was something wrong. She felt it just before it happened as a shiver shot up her spine, making the fine hair on her neck stand erect. The silken figure lunged at her, knocking her backwards into the dirt, the air bursting from her, leaving her choking and breathless. It did not relent its assault, wrestling her arms to her sides and a swift knee lurching hard into her gut. She gasped at the air like a fish on land and struggled in vain to twist her arms free.

She was no stranger to this position as her brother had often beaten her down into compromise—into _submission_ —but those were provoked instances. Whilst she had never understood the reasons, she had normally recognised the cause. This was different. The ghost had no reasons, had no cause that she could imagine. It frightened her more than Viserys ever had done.

Dust sprayed up as they grappled in the dirt and grass. The attacker was much stronger, not only due to robust health but also, it seemed, training. The moves were practiced and precise, rendering each of her defenses useless against such fitness. She was too far from the _khalasar_ to scream and no one would come to her aid besides. The only occupants of this area were slave women, children and the elderly. None retained any interest in her survival beyond what they were ordered to do.

The sandsilk wrap remained defiantly in place throughout the altercation and it drove Dany even madder. _Who is this demon and what does it want from me?_ She yelped as it yanked on her arm and twisted it back behind her head. It was too tiring to continue the pointless fighting so Dany relaxed as the being clambered over her, legs splayed over her chest, pressing down with all its weight just as it had when it had forced her to eat the horse dung.

 _Why did it bring me back to life only to kill me?_ she asked herself, trying to sort out what to do. Helplessly, she came up with no answers. 

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” The voice was still feminine but bitter. The contempt present cut deeper than a knife. 

Was it a trick? Dany nodded anyway because even despite her situation, she was in fact quite hungry and thirsty. Her appetite had returned a few days prior and she was ravenous. Then came the hit. With great force, a hand battered the side of her skull so hard that the queen wondered if she would bleed from her ears. It rang inside her head and pain radiated everywhere throughout her body. She withheld a cry.

“Aren’t you going to fight back?” it taunted her, snarling. “What will it be: slavery or death? Where are your dragons to save you now?” Again, another hit. This one hurt more and she winced, attempting to bring her arms up to block another, but they were pinned again. “Fight, or….”

Then the air went still. Daenerys realised her eyes had been closed and she opened them to stare right into the blue lagoons of Braavos again as they watched her. But as if ice covered them, the eyes staring back at her were hard and guarded. Nothing moved except the breath between them. The voice lowered its timbre to something much more intimate, plucking a chord deep inside.

“Are you a slave, _Khaleesi_?”

Finally Dany remembered where she had heard that voice before. And she screamed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cure/treatment given for dysentery here does actually exist. I am not just being unnecessarily gross to Dany for no reason.


	3. Doreah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos, and for the comments max & OnceUponaTARDIS42! :D x

The piercing wail cut straight across the grasslands, no doubt heard clearly in the nearby tents. Doreah had no fear. She already knew no one would care, least of all for the traitorous intruder that had pissed on their traditions and made fools of all Khal Drogo’s _kos_. Screams of women were hardly uncommon. In fact, Doreah would be doing them a favour if she was to kill Daenerys.

She knew now that Daenerys finally recognised her and it had been all the more rewarding to witness the sheer terror reflected in those blue eyes. Doreah was supposed to be dead at Dany’s own command but here she was exacting the sort of revenge the former _khaleesi_ never would have dreamt. She struggled against Doreah’s hold but years of travel and learning had prepared the Lysene girl for more than just spreading her legs to get her way. It was true that initially she had paid for such life lessons with her sex, but as the years wore on she found herself relying less on her past profession and more on something she never expected to possess: guile. It was especially thanks to a strange, almost ageless girl in Braavos who had indirectly taught her many secrets to survival as a lone wolf in a mere few days. The fact that the girl had surely been many years her junior did not cause her to dismiss her obvious skill. Doreah needed all the help she could plunder however it came.

The years had not been kind and they surely had not been easy. Scars laced her once porcelain skin, ugly red streaks marring any chance she could have had to return to her original life in Lys. A disfigured whore was a worthless whore. Although the scars were mostly hidden under sleeves, gloves, and tunics, a pleasure house was no place for a warrior. When she found Khal Jhaqo in the ruins of a village on the edge of the Dothraki Sea, he saw her beauty unchanged and her scars as marks of honour so he took her as his personal slave. Again, her choice was not really given: obey or die. But a life of a _khal_ ’s slave was better than no life at all, and certainly better than trapped inside a vault for eternity. She had initially longed for the days spent spontaneously roaming Braavos on Beth’s heels, or stowed away on ships, or slipping almost recklessly through crowds of merchants, flirting and picking pockets with nimble fingers that once pleasured instead of pilfered. She had survived well and had experienced freedom as it was meant for her.

In the pleasure houses, in Daenerys’ _kha_ , in Qarth, she had not understood that freedom had a price of its own. That very debt stalked her in the aftermath of her escape from Qarth. It stunk of loneliness and melancholy. She had no home, no friends, no rest. She had questioned Beth about this and was met with a smirk and nothing else. Her reluctant and impromptu teacher was a person of few words, yet her grey eyes said all Doreah needed.

 _You have no home; you have no friends_. _This is freedom._

Her naïvety died completely that day, as it perhaps should have many, many years prior.

She often recalled a disfigured dwarf she met in Volantis. Seeming as free as one could be, he had demonstrated the same glum isolation that she had felt so deeply since Qarth, and his scar across his cheek mirrored a similar one on her arm. She had lost track of him in the ensuing brawl at the low-end brothel as she was whisked away, out of harm’s way, to pleasure a decrepit Tyroshi merchant. But the dwarf’s sad eyes had kept creeping up on her throughout her job that evening. That had been the last night spent at any brothel.

Drogon hunting near to the _khalasar_ had been an unexpected but brilliant stroke of luck, and for the first time since the _khaleesi_ had granted her freedom on the Red Waste, Doreah felt the gods were smiling upon her. The strange Braavosi girl had taught her much about survival but equally as much about cold-blooded revenge. Betrayal was not begetting of mercy, she had learnt. A life for a life, one betrayal for another. She would grant Daenerys the same courtesy as she had bestowed on her in Qarth when her pleas had been brutally silenced and her fate sealed. Having the Queen of Meereen die of the bloody flux would not be revenge; it would be the gods’ will. Doreah knew she had to heal before she hurt, gain trust before she broke it. Just as it had been done to her.

The feverish, guilt-induced madness had only been an extra reward but Doreah had made note that not once had Daenerys called out her name. The delusions that had been clearly parading in front of her previous queen’s eyes and she called out to each of them in turn, crying against their wishes, though in each instance, it had only been Doreah’s words warped into the voices of others. Drogo she had understood. However, the remorse over locking her in the vault to starve to death obviously had not been as important to Daenerys as Irri, Jorah, or Viserys. It had incited further anger within the prior handmaid. But now the power had shifted: although not one of his three _khaleesi_ , she had the _khal_ ’s ear and the dragon queen was nothing but a weakling prisoner. Khal Jhaqo wanted her dead just as much. She took comfort in that.

But as she hovered over the trembling and weak Daenerys, her resolve faltered, as her muscles ached with the tension and her heart hammered at a frightening pace. She felt heat building under her skin and bile rising into her throat at the nervous familiarity of the position. Fighting off a freedman in Qarth as he raped her—and thus giving rise to the first of many new scars—was different to merciless vengeance on an incapacitated prisoner. Where was her honour? Even a whore from Lys could have that to her name if nothing else.

She was not a Targaryen. Never had been despite her foolish belief that she could have joined them one day. She knew mercy. She knew empathy. She knew real justice. And none of those ideals were consistent with her plans. Her helplessness had never rendered her vengeful or insane; it had never made a demon out of her soul. She was a 9-year-old girl sold into sexual slavery, a whore, a handmaid to a mad vicious queen, a criminal on the streets of Free Cities; she was a slave to others but she vowed never to be made into a monster because of it. Yet here she was, just that.

Her deft fingers unlaced themselves from around the silver-haired woman’s wrists and she sat back, still in control but not burning with rage any longer. She would hear Daenerys’ plea before telling Khal Jhaqo that she was healthy again. It would allow her reprieve to calm her breathing.

The screaming had left the queen hoarse and Doreah half-deaf. Her ears rang so loudly that she could barely hear the question fluttering over dry lips.

“Doreah?” It was the sound not of a noble conqueror, but that of a frightened child with a ridiculous wish she dare not believe to be true. “ _Doreah_.” The voice wavered precariously close to a sob as such familiar hands reached up to pull away the silken mask that had not been meant to disguise her identify as much as to ward off The Pale Mare. She noticed that Dany’s fingers shook quite heavily as she did so, lingering against her cheeks, and the notion balled up her guilt into a hard lump inside her stomach. She was not supposed to love this woman any longer, not even as a friend, not after everything that had occurred. _You hate her for what she did to you_ , a small, angry voice inside her sniggered.

Daenerys Targaryen had sentenced her to a death of the most tortuous kind. That could not be so easily forgiven, and certainly not with a few soft touches. That was the same woman lying prone beneath her and it would do well not to forget that. What Dany was looking at was a ghost, an angry, vengeful spirit and Doreah could see that plainly on her pale face white as a sheet herself. This alleged queen had turned Doreah into a killer, a scrapper, a beggar. All things she had never wished for. Not once, even at her lowest moments in the pleasure house, the Red Waste, or the accursed vault. She hated the knowledge and her fate. She hated that she had become this person. Sweat coated her skin, her palms damp. Snatching the blonde’s hands brusquely again, she slammed them back into the dirt, hovered over the blonde, and Dany’s breath caught in a way that wasn’t entirely surprise. It thrummed deep and hot in Doreah’s abdomen, a ghost from years ago.

“Doreah, _please_.”

The laugh that erupted from the back of her throat had not been on purpose but the sheer absurdity of the plea could not be denied. She had heard those words before, usually accompanied by impatient moans, an arching back, slick thighs, and wandering fingers clenched into her skin. Other times it had been more innocent; a favour owing or a chore that needed to be done in the _khalasar_. However, the final time the word “please” had passed between them, it had been the other way around: Doreah begging for her life to be spared. And Dany hadn’t heeded it then, why should the so-called queen be granted any different treatment now?

Doreah stared impassively down, just as Daenerys had done so excellently herself all those years ago. She knew well that indifference in the face of suffering wounded much more painfully than perhaps any other gaze. Her fingers tightened hard around delicate wrists and she twisted until Daenerys yelped out and arched in a desperate attempt to relieve the painful tension.

“Please!” she cried out again, and Doreah was keen to note that not once did she command anything; it was almost as if she already sensed her complete lack of power. She was no queen here, no _khaleesi_ , no one. At this moment, she was as worthless as any other slave, and just as weak. It made the Lysene girl sick, all this begging and crying. What had happened to Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, _Khaleesi_ of Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Shackles and Mother of Dragons, and whatever else Dany was tacking onto her excessively disastrous name? This was no queen, sniveling beneath her. Suddenly she wanted nothing else than to be as far from Dany as possible.

Scrambling away she rose to her feet several yards from the blonde, squinting at her through the growing dark and breathing heavily. The night’s cloak hid the shaking of her own hands and she clenched them into fists to deny it to herself as well. Daenerys pulled herself into a sitting position, glaring hard at her former servant. Doreah, however, took no mind of the queen’s harsh, silent criticism as she knew that within seconds that she could incapacitate her again and that gaze would turn once again to one of helplessness and pleading.

“Doreah,” the Targaryen began, seeming to search for more words but coming up short. She could repeat her name as many times a she liked but it would not sway Doreah’s mind. There was no magic left in that whisper. Only pain.

“How? Why?”

The brunette shook her head. “If you cannot figure that out alone, _Kha_ –” She caught herself quickly as habit overtook her. “I cannot help you. You are no different than me any longer.” She paused briefly and looked Dany over dismissively. “Although perhaps less brave.”

She didn’t need eyes to be aware of how the dragon queen bristled at such an accusation. It snapped through the air between them. Years of serving Daenerys had not only enlightened Doreah to her lady’s strengths, but also her weaknesses, and the pride that apparently hunted every man. Dany lurched clumsily in an attempt to stand, but her illness had ravaged her body too much to allow a graceful or forceful success.

“Save your strength, Daenerys Targaryen. You’ll need it on the morrow when Khal Jhaqo sees you awake and well.”

Threats came more and more naturally to her now, and were full of thicker truth. Years of solitary journeying, intimidating men, and warding off unwelcome advances had taught her new skills. No longer were her words meant to protect another, only herself. She had said nothing more to Daenerys and left her pathetic and alone in the tall grass as she made her way to the _khal’s okre_. He would still be awake, most likely. If not, she knew how to rouse him in a way that staved off a beating. His _khaleesi_ s were less easy to persuade but his protection afforded her a certain leeway.

If Daenerys believed her a traitor all those years past, she would finally live up to that charge. She owed the dragon witch no loyalty. Any semblance of that died the moment she realised that mercy would not be given to her in that vault. The disbelief, pain, and deep betrayal she had felt when the vault door closed only grew over the years into the ugliest of emotions. The hurt turned to poisonous anger, the anger to hate, almost against her best attempts. Now, Doreah answered to no woman, although she knew her place equally well and took care not to overstep either of the _khaleesi_ s.

She reached the _khal_ ’s tent and reminded herself why she was doing this. As her hand reached out to pull back the flap, she saw the pale pink scar dividing the back of her hand. It was so ugly still. Yet it was also a token. A memory. A reason. The sounds of sex slithered out from the interior and it gave her pause. Khaleesi Ahri’s moans grated her ears and she turned back. It was not the time. Daenerys would likely live another day.

Tolui, a young girl of many generations of Dothraki blood yet a slave since the passing of her father, who had been bringing Daenerys water and food, was forbade from doing the same the next day. Doreah wanted no one to have contact with the former princess, citing a relapse of illness as a viable excuse. They all believed her; after all, they accepted that Doreah knew the strange, silver-haired woman best. It had been her by Dany’s side each night far out in the _hranna_ under the stars with a dagger and a thick stick to swat at the feral dogs.

 

The following day, when evenfall returned with the loping roll of thunder in the distance, Doreah once again attempted to inform the _khal_ of Dany’s recovery and once again she hesitated at the tent opening, choosing eventually to return to her hut without giving word. She tried to understand what was causing such unwanted caution and found no answer within her mind.

Making her way out to the spot they had dumped Daenerys, she forced down the bile seeping into her throat. Her entire stomach lurched when she found the area empty. Had Dany made her way back to the _khalasar_? Had she been dragged off by wild dogs? The question answered itself as she heard the rustle of grass behind her but she was too late. Claws raked at her face as the force knocked her to the ground. Spitting mud and stones from her mouth she clambered away and swung to face the dogs.

All she saw was a vengeful dragon. In female human form, but no less vengeful and no less dangerous. Daenerys seemed to have returned to full health despite the purposeful restriction of water and food. Fire burned again from within and Doreah narrowed her eyes. _Finally a just fight._

But as Doreah leapt forward, her veins pumping with fury and heedless anticipation, Daenerys faltered, stumbling back and falling with a thud to the ground, obviously fatigued and gasping for breath, even at such small exertion.

They would not be coming to blows tonight, Doreah knew. Instead she sighed, dropped her fists and lowered herself down opposite her past _khaleesi_ , the only one she had ever loved. They said nothing to each other for long moments; the only sound was the wisp of grass and a distant yelping howl of a dog as thunder crackled thousands of hands above them. Forks of lightning splintered far in the distance. Touching her tender cheek gingerly, Doreah dabbed at the droplets of blood that had burst forth at Daenerys fingertips. It did not invoke anger as she expected, but made her feel more akin to a kicked dog. It had been a warning from Daenerys. Eventually tiring of watching Dany attempt to catch her breath, she pulled a small flagon of water from where it was attached to her belt. There was no gentleness in her throw and it landed hard beside the blonde who snatched it up and drained it greedily. Desperately.

She knew that feeling. She knew what it was like after days and days of no water to finally be handed the most precious substance in the world. The kings could keep their gold and silver; she had no desire for it. When the Dothraki horde had sacked a nearby town to where she had been so many years ago, she remembered their view on riches. It was not that they were too simple to understand the power of gold, as many Westerosi, Lyseni, Yunkai and Qarthians seemed to believe. In fact, they knew it _very_ well, but also understood its destructive power better than any merchant in Essos or any repulsive royalty in Westeros. They saw riches for exactly what they were and nothing more and only used them as necessary. There were many things far more valuable in the long term than glittering objects. This wasn’t to say that a little finery was shunned. There was sophistication as well but those blinded by the glare of a golden crown would not be likely to see it. They were already too far lost.

Stealing a horse, she had rode to meet them, giving herself over to the _khalasar_ willingly. She had hoped to remain a freedwoman but her face had not been forgotten and Khaleesi Bhithi refused to allow her such pleasure. The Khal took her horse, a lovely white mare not unlike Dany’s previous mount, and relegated her to service. Being a slave had not been part of her plan, but she preferred the _khalasar_ to many of the Free Cities now, with their deceptions and savagery and mad queens. They all viewed the Dothraki the same, yet for Doreah, living amongst the Dothraki people had been the only real home she had ever known; the only difference being that her new home lacked the core family it once had. More than Lys, Pentos, Braavos, or any town in between, the Great Grass Sea felt right. She understood now why the exiled Ser Jorah had adopted it as his home as well.

Now the closest thing remaining of what was once her family was sat in the grass four arm’s lengths away, cold and suspicious, glaring at her from behind tired blue eyes.

 _She tried to kill you_ , a voice said. _She never even gave you a chance._ Sympathy would be of no use any longer.

“Why has Khal Jhaqo not come for me?” The question came out stiff and chilly and Doreah repressed a shudder.

She could tell the truth. But a lie was better. “The _khalasar_ will be moving any day. The great _khal_ is too busy to worry himself with the likes of you.” Doreah smirked. “But don’t fear. He will come soon.”

“Great _khal_ ,” Daenerys muttered in disdain. “I know of only one great _khal_ and his name was Drogo.”

“I reckon you should inform Khal Jhaqo of your position. He would be most pleased to hear it.” Words flowed like poison between them, the air crackling with building hostility.

Bristling, Dany’s spine straightened defiantly. “You should not be so insolent. I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Queen of –-.”

“You are not _my_ queen any longer.” Doreah snapped, interrupting what was bound to be a waste of breath and time. She shook her head, blue eyes narrowed and burning. “I will not refer to you as such. Nor will anyone here. You are merely a traitor.”

“ _Me_?” Dany was clearly aghast at the accusation. “ _You_ are calling _me_ a traitor?” She looked positively enraged. “You forget your place, Doreah.”

The exiled handmaid shrugged her shoulders as if Dany’s response was the over-reaction of a madwoman. “I forget nothing.” With that, she stared straight at the dragon’s daughter, attempting to impress on her what was really happening at the moment and where the accusations should be more justly placed. “Neither does Khal Jhaqo, nor the crones at Vaes Dothrak.”

There was silence between them. It was certain that Daenerys, even despite the years and the likely attempts to push aside her transgressions against the Dothraki, remembered what she had done. Her refusal to abide by tradition and take her place alongside the crones following Drogo’s death was no mere slight. It carried one of two sentences: death or exile to Vaes Dothrak. Normally it was a swift death from a swipe of an _arakh_. Whatever was in the _khal_ ’s plan, his reticence did not bode well for Daenerys; it was likely that what was being mistaken for mercy was part of an outcome far more ruthless. Not only had she humiliated Jhaqo, she was still seen by many as taking all of the glory and none of the responsibility of being Dothraki, despite her magic dragons. Afterall, many of the Dothraki people still maintained that brave men killed dragons, not rode them. It would be the bravest warrior of all that killed the Mother of Dragons herself. Her accomplishments after Drogo’s death—dragons, thrones, frippery—were of no interest to most of the Dothraki warlords though none could speak for the crones. It was blood that made them strong, not frivolity and empty words.

“What happened to you, Doreah?” The question was almost curious, almost kind but hidden behind the words was a distinct timbre of disfavour. It was enough for the night and Doreah could not bear to listen to Dany’s pity or disgust at her expense.

“You.” The word shot like an arrow aimed true for the throat, and ideally wounded as such. She stood quickly, throwing the large stick towards a speechless and cowed Dany and stalked off into the night.


	4. Daenerys II

In Qarth, the _khaleesi_ had not shed a single tear. Not one drop had dared to even well up at the furthest corners of her eyes.

At the time, she had been too overwhelmed by the stinging venom of betrayal to feel much more than anger. Her encounter with Pyat Pree had reinforced her faith in her dragons, and therefore herself and she had been riding high on anger as she had stormed back to Xaro Xhoan Daxos’ manse. If Pree had been involved, no doubt the richest man in Qarth had been too. She was inspired. She was incensed.

Gathering the remainder of her Dothraki allies and Ser Jorah, they had stormed towards the self-proclaimed King of Qarth’s wing. The parade, the stampeding of her army at her back, her dragons hissing and snapping in her arms, and the sheer energy swirling around the procession was enough to maintain her excitement and her determination for revenge. It hadn’t been until they came to the vestibule that she had seen the dress. There was no mistaking the garment; she had pulled feverishly at it enough times to know the exact body it had fallen from.

There had been denial first. It ground roughly against her chest and clogged up her senses for moment. Drogon had spat a lick of flame against her cheek and she snapped out of her momentary pause.

 

 _Doreah was alive_.

 

She should have known. She and Ser Jorah had counted the bodies of her fallen people and the count had only been off by one. Yet she resisted the idea. Steeped in denial, nothing but a missing dead body made sense. She had pleaded over and over with herself that Doreah would never do such a thing. How foolish she had been, how naïve. _Stupid Dany_ , she berated herself. _I was warned; my bear told me to trust no one at all, that suspicions existed for a reason. I did not listen. I could not bear the truth, like so many other times._

Her followers were restless as she hesitated in the antechamber, surrounded by such riches and knowing there were more to come. Ser Jorah unsheathed his longsword gracefully, ready for confrontation in her name and the sharp scrape of metal scratched roughly at her heart. She knew at that moment what she would find behind the unnecessarily ornate bedchamber doors. The bile rose into her throat and she swallowed stiffly as she continued her march towards her traitors. _Not a queen, a khaleesi_ , she reminded herself – a _khaleesi_ cannot cry and a dragon is never afraid.

She _hated_ them all; all the liars and cheaters in this disgusting little masquerade, all of them pretending to promise, to care, to _love_. A scowl had overcome her features when she imagined the sight behind the doors. _Her_ Doreah was never hers, never loyal even after all she had done for her. It offended her but moreover, it stabbed ruthlessly at her chest, withered her fragile trust into powder. Steeling her nerves and her face, the mask slipped into place; it was her own contribution to the sick pantomime. It had not been difficult at all. She could feel the loathing and rage boiling inside her more violently with every passing second. She would make them pay for this with their lives, the only things they appeared to hold dear.

Daxos’ betrayal was inevitable, she could see that in hindsight. But Doreah’s betrayal—her Dothraki attire scattered on the floor in the foyer as clear evidence– that was far worse. _For a whore’s loyalty, one just has to name the right price_. It was about riches, not fidelity. She had seen it so clearly suddenly. Trust no man. Or whore.         

When they had entered the bedroom, it had not shocked Dany at all. It was exactly as she had imagined: Doreah sleeping peacefully, _naked,_ beside another. Specifically, her sworn handmaid rested alongside the man who had orchestrated the murder of her people and the theft and imprisonment not only of her children, but Dany herself. And Doreah lay with him freely. Dany had known she had no gold to give her handmaid, and Xaro must have promised her the world—as he had done just days earlier to Dany. How could she have hoped to ever compete with that? Previously, Doreah’s loyalty had been unquestioned. That had been the _khaleesi_ ’s first mistake. Her heart felt as if it had been torn from her breast, her throat tight and her soul empty. She had not known then that was how a heart feels when it breaks a second time.

The treasonous vision of them swam through her mind, and the anger it provoked lit a new fire. _Revenge_. She hated them both, moreso than anyone before. She had despised Viserys, yes, and even the _maegi_ that had stolen both her unborn son and her sun and stars. Many years later she would come to loathe the Ghiscari slavers and the Meereenese that saw dragon pits as entertainment alike. But none in her life had she ever hated so much and so purely as she had Doreah, most of all when she had found her handmaid naked and entwined in Daxos’ sheets, oblivious to her blatant betrayal. If she—no. If they _both_ would not pay with fire, they would pay with blood. Xaro murdered her people and kidnapped her children, true. Yet even more painful was how Doreah betrayed her most intimate trust, with such a man above all else. Her guise had never faltered and her cold, ungentle heart thudded solidly against her breast. It reminded her what must be done. _For Irri, for my dragons, for my people, the traitors will suffer._

The false king woke first and his companion quickly thereafter. Daenerys could have sworn she glimpsed the smallest of smiles on Doreah’s perfidious face. Those lips she had known so well suddenly became alien and unrecognizable in the light of treason. The possibility of a smirk riled her into further anger. The truth was she had not even heard Doreah’s excuse; she had not cared to hear it. It likely was as transparent and weak as her fealty. Perhaps even, she had been terrified of what she heard. She would not hear Doreah’s pleas at all much less grant her the mercy of considering them.

The dragon had been awoken. It would not rest until justice was done.

 

It had been laughable, Xaro Xhoan Daxos’ pitiful attempts at escape from a certain death. Had she not been focussed on remaining utterly impassive, had she not had such contempt rushing through her blood, perhaps she may have laughed aloud at the feeble solicitations. It had not surprised her either to find the vault empty, and she thanked him for the lesson. She ignored Doreah entirely. Her lesson she had learnt once already with her brother. _The more people you love, the weaker you are._ There was no place for weakness, nor mercy any longer.

Khaleesi, _please_. 

_I beg you, please._

The words had been like brittle daggers in her ears. She could not wait for the moment they would be silenced forever. All the begging in the world could not erase the foul stench of betrayal permeating the air around them all.

It had felt good to seal Doreah and Daxos in that empty vault of false promises – just as they had both given to her. They would starve on their own greed and suffocate on their own vapid words of promise and trust. The emptiness would be their death. What is a king without a kingdom? What is a whore without her dues?

Mummers. Pariahs. _Nothing_.

 

And so they should remain for eternity.

 

* * *

 

Even after days of looting and conflict with Xaro’s remaining houseguards, she felt nothing beyond bitterness and contempt towards the two traitors locked beneath the earth in that impenetrable vault. Each night she slept dreamlessly beside her dragons and guarded by her knight, the only remaining face she could trust. She vowed never to be so naive again. Those nights had been inexplicably cold and lonely but still she had not cried. There was nothing to provoke tears. She was not sorry for her vengeance. It had been just, and regret was a slow-acting poison she had no use for. Hate borne of betrayal and pain, however, that she held onto.

She found herself missing her handmaids in the mornings: the gentle tinkle of Irri’s smooth Dothraki tones as she recalled moments of joy in the _khalasar_ ; the soft touch of Doreah’s fingertips against her cheek as she brushed and braided Dany’s hair, the way her sighs would dissolve into the wind during the intimate moments that were shared with no one else. But nothing would bring Irri back and only Dany could free Doreah. Pride, resentment, and something far more incessant and ugly prevented that. Her freedom stripped away, the whore would rot in that cell just as she deserved.

After two days, Jorah procured a solid ship with a good, seaworthy captain with the fake riches she had pilfered from Xaro Xhoan Daxos’ manse. It was only one but Daenerys had nothing resembling the army she had originally designed. It would suit them fine. As they set off from port, she thought of the ones she was leaving in Qarth, dead bodies all of them. With eyes trained on the far blue horizon, she stood tall and alone on the bow of the great ship whilst the salty sea splashed its own tears onto her face. A few felt hotter than the rest, and her eyes stung, but they all tasted of the same brackish, bitter flavour.


	5. Doreah II

After a while the darkness had come as a comfort. Within the blanket of blindness, she didn’t have to face her fate as barren and hopeless as it was. She did not have to look upon the face the man who had incited all of this with his zealous greed. She did not have to face her own reflection, her own complacency, her own guilt. In the darkness, she disappeared and became no one. The only tools left to her were her ears, her nose, her fingers, all solely used to gauge where he rested. That man she hated even more now than she had a week previous. Without sight, he was lucky because she could not tell where to spit in order to hit him square in the eyes. Yet, she could hide here in the obscurity, from him as well as her alleged betrayal.

For a few days, Doreah had expected the click of the lock to echo through the vault; her _khaleesi_ would have calmed down and adjusted their punishment to something more just. In honesty, Doreah could not care less about Xaro’s fate. He meant nothing to her now and even in the previous week, he had been nothing other than a promise of life over certain death at the hands of his guards. Hours dragged on into days, perhaps. Feeble conversation lapsed as hope faded. She could not tell exactly how many days had come and gone but it was clear that Daenerys Stormborn would not be granting her any mercy.

 

It probably was somewhere around the second day of confinement that the smell became apparent. Excrement and urine pooled on the floor in the corner but the odour had not contained itself in the same way. She had been ill at some point but that had only made it worse. Cursing herself for retching up what likely was the last food she would ever have, she curled into a ball against the wall. She could hear Xaro’s laboured breaths many feet away and prayed to the gods— _any_ god—that he would remain there.

At first, he had made an effort to talk, telling unbelievable stories of his loyal guardsmen. They would take the key from the petulant dragon child, he claimed. They would free their king. His plans never included Doreah. Perhaps she was meant to assume when he said “I” and “me”, he really meant “us” and “we”. Soon however, the hopes began to dwindle and his words became darker. Further, he had made a few attempts to cajole her into some replicate of comfort and pleasure. There truly was nothing else to do in the dark, empty hole. However, a momentary distraction was merely that. More importantly, being anywhere close to his body was not anything she desired and when spoken refusal was ignored, she leapt into the dark away from his wandering fists.

Irritability had set in, and pacing began. She could hear his shuffling across the cell, back and forth, back and forth. He cursed often, into the void. She cowered away, distracting herself from pummelling him by chewing her nails into painful, raw stubs.

By some miracle, they had not begun to suffocate yet. It gave her pause because if there was fresh air, there must be a leak, a weakness somewhere in the thick, supposedly impenetrable walls. Part of her began to hate Daenerys for this punishment, for her lack of mercy and her brash revenge. She had not even flinched at Doreah’s pleading and that alone had made her stomach turn in horror. Dany was not the person she had believed her to be and nowhere close to the queen she had once seen. Whatever betrayal the young girl had invented in her mind to excuse her behaviour, Doreah felt it too when she thought of her _khaleesi_ , her wrathful demon of death in a saviour’s mask of fire.

The hunger began as rumbling, became uncomfortable, and turned soon to cramping. The thirst was worse. Desperation moved her to choke down her own urine. With revulsion, she realised she would gladly drink Xaro’s piss as well if it meant survival. Once her only source of water became more intermittent and far more potent, she knew she was only prolonging the inevitable.

No one would be coming to save them. They were less than worthless now. A liar and a traitor. A murderer and a whore.

 

Gradually, the hunger pains began to subside. It was not clear why but she would not question it. Had she known it was because her stomach was slowly atrophying perhaps she would have cried. As it stood, no tears fell. She couldn’t afford to waste a drop regardless of the frustration, fear, and hate she felt churning in her gut where sustenance used to reside.

It could have been the fifth or eighth day when she realised that neither of them were awake most of the time. She slept often and barely moved from her cold spot on the dirt ground. Her skin was painfully dry; every crease was cracked and open with sores oozing the last of her fluids to coat themselves. It seemed a cruel trick of her body to betray her as well. Colours fluttered in her vision, a trick of her starved mind. Dreams played in front of her as if she was viewing them from elsewhere. It was disconcerting at first, the hallucinations. But they turned into memories soon after, easing her into death with their nostalgic lullabies.

There was a man from Ibben in the pleasure house telling her about how long he had survived in no-man’s land without food or water. His fingers had been warm stroking her skin. His voice had been soothing and hopeful yet held no advice for her. There was Irri, smiling, taking her hand and leading her towards a horse under the cover of night to patiently teach her to ride as the _khaleesi_ slept. There was Ayleth, her best friend in the pleasure house, sharing an overripe and delectably juicy quince whilst they giggled about the stories from the day previous and the parade of strange bedfellows they had entertained.

But the comfort she took from vague memories of life years ago dissolved into anxiety as the visions transformed into moments she had once considered to be locked away forever. She saw her mother, grotesquely red painted lips and covered in false gold bangles as she traded her pretty little daughter for a meagre handful of coppers. She saw the child confused and screaming in grief and fear. She barely recognized it as her own reflection.

Then she saw Khal Drogo that night just after they had joined his _khalasar_ when he came to her where she slept outside the _khaleesi_ ’s tent; the only true secret she had kept from Daenerys. He had been rough and indifferent as he plowed into her but it had been easy to learn his ways. He was like every other Dothraki rider she had taken—or perhaps had taken her. Whether she had sought to or not, it had been the expectation of her and her place, one that had never changed, even with the _khalasar_ in Qarth. She had a single inherent purpose from the moment Viserys Targaryen had so flippantly purchased her in Lys, and contrary to everything she had believed when the _khaleesi_ had released her from slavery, it was the purpose she was still kept for. Daenerys made that clear in Qarth. She was meant to please men and so she had. The moment flashed through what had been hundreds of men’s faces, settling finally on Xaro. As if it was happening anew, she felt the pains from them all between her legs, in her body, in her heart. She felt their weight crushing her chest, smelt their foul breath, tasted their salty, rancid sweat on her tongue. All had similar feelings attached to them and she shuddered violently as a result, the hair on the back of her neck standing on end. If she had any bile left, it surely would have risen into her throat.

Soon after, the Red Waste stretched out endlessly in front of her, sunlight brazenly glaring down on her. Exhausted and dehydrated, she stumbled along after her horse had shrivelled to a useless lump of skin and bones. And Dany’s face appeared in her vision, with her pale eyes imploring Doreah onwards, insisting that her choice would not be in vain. She would be free and they would spend it together, with dragons and fire and power.

Worst of all was the image of Dany, glowing, sprawled naked on fine linens, not a single bead of sweat on her fair skin but heaving with want all the same. Something had stirred inside Doreah’s gut at the thought and she tried to bite hard on her tongue only to find out she lacked the will to do even that. In those moments, she swore she could feel the _khaleesi_ ’s hands on her skin, her lips on her neck, her longing moans in her ear, and Doreah’s body began to boil inside her own skin. For a fleeting moment, she was entranced and the next moment, just like every similar vision, she questioned if it was even a memory at all or merely a fantasy of something that had never really existed.

 

No one had warned her about the madness. The visions were one thing, but they multiplied and mutated into paranoia and fear and all sorts of horrible entities. She contemplated eating Xaro at more than one point and could not even find it in herself to be repulsed by the idea when in any other state of mind she would hate herself for the mere thought. She should have been, she knew, but disgust never came. The darkness made everything worse, but it made her feel invisible and blameless as well. Trapped, blind, and starving to death, there was nothing else except eternal night, and its accompanying nightmares.

The terrors became reality when Xaro began to deteriorate suddenly. She could hear his stumbling around, dry retching, cursing, and screaming. He assaulted the gods with his words, speaking of delusions and horrors beyond even her imagination. He yelled at invisible faces, had vitriolic debates with pebbles on the floor and the walls of the vault as if they were alive. He lashed out with fists and feet whenever he could reach Doreah, grappling her once and biting on her leg before she had managed to kick free and crawled into the black, silent as a shadowcat. He was a monster, brutal and careless, a giant thrashing about with a strength borne out of nothing except the essence of pure insanity and desperation. The problem she knew was rooted in adjustment. For her, she was accustomed after many moons crossing the Red Waste to living on less. Xaro Xhoan Daxos however had become fat and complacent, spoilt by his own wealth and access to the finest foods. It hit him harder despite his greater size. Hunger and captivity preyed on his prior gluttony with no remorse and his mind fell to pieces in light of the unyielding assault.

 

She was not certain where the will to live had come from, but it existed deep inside. The flame was only flickering now, slowly dying, but it was still there. Xaro’s seemed to be suffocating. Her nightdress was caked with dirt and grime, and blood from his rabid bite but she patted down the pockets, cursing herself for not realizing sooner the tiny token that was always stowed in a small tuft of fabric. How could she have forgotten? Her mind could not race to find an answer, it only trudged along slowly and meandered aimlessly into pointless tangents before she gave up completely. It had become much more difficult in recent days (hours?) to think in a straight line, or even finish a thought at all. The lethargy threatened to steal what was remaining of her sense. When Xaro sought her out for what felt like the thousandth time, deliriously beating her over the head with a solid backhand of rage, she made a decision, as if the smack had jump-started her feeble mind again. She had barely any strength left to shield herself, and almost nothing in her reserves to defend herself in retaliation so she took the hits and counted them as if ticking off the moments before an explosion.

_1… 2... 3... 4..._

By the fifth one, he wavered and missed, smashing his hand against the wall instead. She lay down quietly and prayed he would simply forget about her presence. And he did. He fell with exhaustion at her feet, mumbling incoherently into the dirt. She could hear his hands raking through the sand. Everything seemed so loud suddenly.

“I have something to drink, Your Grace.” Her voice was hoarse from disuse and her tongue rasped painfully against the dryness in her mouth. He muttered something again but she could feel him shift.

“Give it to me. I am the King... I still own you, whore.” He was no true Summer Islander anymore. The words, even in their truth, still wounded her as they had meant to. She handed the tiny vial to him; the little treasure she had clung onto for so many years. It was barely 5 drops worth of dissolved deathbringer but it would be enough to bring him to helplessness. His bowels were already dying, his body already on the brink of expiry. All he needed was a small push. _Tears of Lys_ , _a woman’s weapon,_ the faceless man had told her when he had sneaked it into her palm on her way out of the Lysene pleasure house. She had heard of the poison but never seen it, and certainly could not imagine ever having a rightful use for it. Now it seemed oddly apt. If she could not cry, the poison would do it for her.

She fed it to him, making sure it hit his tongue. Swallowing was difficult this far into dehydration, but he managed, only to lurch around and scream about trickery. _That was no drink_ , he had yelled into the never-ending blackness. Doreah had already crawled to the opposite wall.

Within minutes, his anger turned to distress and he howled in pain. There was a slight shudder in the floor as his heavy body collapsed again. His breathing was irregular, but present. He would not be moving again. She crept over and using the last of her strength clamped her hands hard over his nose and mouth. His body seized momentarily but then fell still and silent. No more air escaped.

 _What has become of me?_ she wondered with a chilling lack of concern. She had killed a man in cold blood. Now she would eat him.

The glutton would become the feast.


	6. Daenerys III

On the Great Grass Sea, Doreah's threats were shown to be idle. The great _khal_ never did send for her. More filthy lies. Doreah's beautiful mouth was full of them now. The _khalasar_ moved once, for a few days, then again and once more, tediously slowly.

As always, Dany was dragged behind a rider during the journey, hands bound with rough rope, feet aching from leagues crossed with worn sandals. It was difficult to tell whether she was a prisoner or a slave; they appeared the same to her. She was given a worn bedroll in a tiny corner of a slave _okre_ to sleep and was expected to work all day doing tedious chores of which she had no skill and even less patience to learn. No one spoke to her except, on occasion, Doreah or one of the older women to berate her for her incompetency. The Dothraki preferred to shun her entirely or stare as if she was a most unwelcome pest.

She slept alone, ate alone, worked alone, cried alone. The days and nights were so very long and her punishment unwavering. It felt as if a moon had passed already with nothing but poisonous glares given to her from all sides. It stung worst when Doreah looked her way.

She remembered the summer sky and that was what she missed now. That exact blue, crisp and striking, unclouded by the dust and sand she was so accustomed to in Meereen. _Eyes like the summer sky_ , she had thought all those years past and they had followed her ever since. Catching a secret glance across the market in Qarth, the joyous glimmer as Drogon smoked his first meat, the way those eyes fixated on her, the pupils dilated until almost black, as they lay side by side inside stifling tents on the Red Waste — those memories scratched uncomfortably at her heart every time the Lysene girl glared solemnly across the _khalasar_ , her blue eyes dull, grey, and accusatory. What could have once been wonder and love reflecting outwards had turned to rot.

Anger boiled in her blood sometimes when she thought of Doreah’s presence here, her betrayal, and her cruel words and even more cruel behaviour. But mostly, she felt weary and a sad longing so deep her bones ached with it, or more so with want for what had been lost.

The greatest weapon of all was not her dragons; it was love: a tortuous, ceaseless pain. Women and men alike brandished it around like a noble sword, swinging and slashing it at each other, defensively yes, but desperate to be fatally marred by such a sharp blade all the same. But when that wound festered with mistrust, betrayal, and sorrow there was no bodily pain more unbearable. The blade once glinting like beautiful steel was laced on its jagged edges with the poison of suspicion, assumption, jealousy, misery; and on its double-edge lurked hatred – that putrid stench that rotted every soul to the core, but never quite killed. It bore agony instead: condemned to merciless suffering and at the worst, vengeance in love’s wake.

Was there a cure for such a corruption? Dany supposed not. If there was, she had not yet found anything to heal over such wounds and bind the skin to mere scars. She thought of every man she had loved, each in their own way: her brother Viserys, her great stallion Drogo, Daario who never returned like favour. She thought of all the men who had loved her, Jorah most of all. For all its triumphs that were sung in the songs of the bards, love certainly had done no good to any of them. It had only made cravens and thieves of those with enough folly to believe it, or worse, brought about an end to life.

Then she thought of Doreah. Her Doreah, who loved so freely once, in both body and spirit. And whom she loved in return, in the best way she could manage which in the end had not been enough. Doreah who now appeared so disfigured by the ravages of love lost during long years past, both inside and out. She was a husk of the slave Viserys had given her on her wedding night, a mere decaying shadow of the girl that had shared her bed after Drogo’s death, warped by time and suffering, tormented by bitterness. Her skin bore witness to it all with pink scars splitting her skin like the desolate Red Wastes they had once travelled together.

 _Do I look as ugly in Doreah’s eyes also?_ Dany wondered, afraid of the truth. The cruel accusations the handmaid threw towards her implied it was so. They had struck deeply against her soul, savaging the fragile light of hope she had felt upon recognition of her face that night she awoke from her fever. Still, Daenerys could not quite understand where such hatred had found its root. Something inside Doreah was soured now. She couldn’t help wondering if it was her doing as the girl had claimed.

She considered Viserys most of all in times like these, and Jorah in others, and Doreah in the darkest hours. She had loved them all, in different ways but just as strongly. They had all betrayed her. They had all suffered for it. She had meant death for both her cruel brother and her treasonous handmaid. Jorah too had been sent away with no expectation of his safe return. Yet two came back to her, neither one as repentant as she envisaged. _Why?_

Love made fools and monsters of them all.

She was made one, for certain. She could see it. Madness ran in her family, or so the smallfolk whispered behind her back. _Love_ made her mad, she knew. Four times she had counted the ways such feeling had devoured her sanity.

It made her reckless and thoughtless and bolstered her to believe she was more than she was. Yet the fatal consequences of her hubris were directed towards another. It made her lash out with unyielding malice against her own blood. It made her tear apart inside and offer swift unforgiving, vengeance -- the only bandage she could find for the searing pain betrayal had bestowed upon her. It made her blood run cold and slowly; it made her dismiss everything except the boiling rage inside borne of the agony only a loved one’s betrayal can incite.

She found it was best not to love. Her most recent marriage had no semblance of love and remained much safer because of that truth – purely politicking. It was logical, and despite Missandei’s best efforts to sway her mind, she knew she could never marry for love again; she could never fall in love again. Madness was too easily accessible in such a state when emotions eclipsed reason and love was so eager to be blinded by hate.

 

* * *

 

Across the brazier, she glanced up from her dried horsemeat to see Doreah fussing over a bowl of stew with the slave girls known as Tolui and Laha. The brunette, feeling eyes on her, immediately began to seek out Dany’s gaze as if she had known.

The stare held as Dany tried to gauge what thoughts were building behind those clouded eyes, what new storm was brewing this time. There was a slight narrowing, but strangely no outward hostility for once. If anything, something flickered differently than anything she had seen since finding herself in Jhaqo’s _khalasar_. It was Doreah who looked away first, suddenly far more interested in the meal she was preparing than she had been previously.

Laha laughed boisterously as Doreah’s lips moved and suddenly Dany realised that although she had resolved to never want for love again, she desperately desired a friend. Loneliness, even whilst immersed in a close community of thousands, permeated her days. She ate her meals wedged side-by-side with many talkative and kind women, even some who smiled at her occasionally, but she felt alone and barely was able to hold a real conversation with anyone. When spoken to, it was usually some reprimand for her inability to do slave’s work with any semblance of skill. She had been too long in grand pyramids and never once lacked for servants. When she spoke back in her slowly improving Dothraki, it was lucky if anyone paid her any mind whatsoever. She felt like nothing more than a shade shifting through a life that did not care for her presence. _Yes, a friend is all I long for._

Losing Doreah as a lover and a servant had been miserable. Losing her as a friend seemed now to be even worse. Dany’s actions in Qarth haunted her in her nightmares now, reminding her nightly of her contribution to their current situation. Would Doreah have been here if she had shown mercy all those years ago? Would Dany herself? Certainly the variables could have changed, yet she wondered if it would have made much difference. In exile, perhaps Doreah would have found herself here just the same. Yet likely there would have been far less animosity.

What ifs and should haves were as vapid as children's fairytales. There was no way of prophesying how life would have been. All that mattered was how it currently was.

The answer was easy: unbearably lonely. And just a little bit hopeless.

 

 

The blue hour came and went and slowly the souls of great _khal_ s of the past sparkled against a deep navy sky. Still she remained crouched around the dying fire, seeking its warmth as nothing else was willing to share with her. Many of the slaves had moved to their bedrolls hours past. A few of the younger women and men still wandered around, fetching and preparing foodstuffs and riding ropes for the next day, or just chattering amicably amongst themselves. An imposing outrider --she thought his name was Hrako-- came by to speak with Bileg, a very pretty girl of near 20 namedays. Their exchange reminded her too much of Irri and Rahkaro. She had to look away, the pain never having left her over the loss not only of her own bloodrider, but Irri as well. Her Irri who had died so needlessly and horribly, alone. There were many nights she found herself plagued with visions of death, and the dead spoke to her often on these occasions. Their terrifying truths unsettled her for days at a time. None had made her feel quite as lonely upon waking as Irri’s garish visits had done. With Viserys, Mirri Maz Duur, and Doreah, she had been able to shield herself with lies, justifications for her murderous actions; she threw up their treasonous actions as a defense. Irri was innocent; her wailing for Rakharo echoed in Dany’s dreams time and time again. The queen’s own cries for Irri oft joined them in a mournful chorus of grief. Although she knew Irri’s blood was on Xaro’s hands, she could not scrub hers clean either. Even with Missandei, Irri’s absence was still felt each day. One handmaid was not a replacement for another. They were not faceless chattel. She had been her friend, the closest to a sister she had ever known.

Her legs ached as she rose but she had to get away from the scene before her and the memories striking so hard at her heart.

Her feet found themselves crunching over long _hranna_ on the outskirts of the _khalasar_. She kept walking. It was dangerous straying this far from the fires without protection from the savage dogs and the incredibly rare but deadly grasscats but her legs moved of their own accord in a direction she had not planned. Not far beyond was a small rise, no larger than a decent burial mound, but it was calling to her. Heeding the feeling, she climbed up, not knowing what to expect. A beautiful view? A trap? Drogon?

Instead, she found none of those things. Only the silhouette of a woman sitting on the wayward slope, barely visible if not for the silver of the waning moon. Shiny metal glinted as she moved closer and realise the person was holding a small dagger in one hand. But if the shadow heard her approach, it made no hint of such. She crept closer.

She knew who it was. Her boldness was spurred on by intuition certainly. Otherwise she could see no other reason for such recklessness. Although she guessed the person, she remained beyond arm’s reach and settled down in the grass as well.

They sat in silence. Lantern bugs flitted about their heads for a moment as the chorus of similar nightbugs echoed in the Dothraki Sea. A whistle of a lone nightingale swept over their heads, merely a cry and sound of flapping wings amongst the camouflage of night.

“Tolui was asking after you.” Daenerys found her voice soft and almost timid as she released the lie to the dark air.

“She is with Varo tonight. In his _okre_. Were you with them?” The voice was icy, sussing out her untruthful excuse easily. There was a long pause. “Why are you here?”

Dany shrugged but realised after that had Doreah even been facing her, she still may not have seen the response in the dark. “Why are you?”

She watched Doreah’s head turn, looking over her shoulder in Dany’s direction, eyes likely squinting and cold. No response came forth.

“You did the same at the previous _khalasar_ site,” Dany stated, still trying for an answer.

Long quiet minutes stretched out like eons between the women and Dany wondered if perhaps dawn would arise before she received a response. Doreah shifted in the grass but kept silent, her fingers nervously stroking the small hilt of her Dothraki dagger.

“Have you ever been locked up and left to die slowly inside a blackened vault with no food, no water, no light and only an evil man for company then forced to live with those memories every time the sun sets?”

Dany lowered her head, unable to even look in Doreah’s direction. “No.” Guilt coated the single word.

“Perhaps if you did, then you would understand. The night is dark and full of terrors.” She breathed a long sigh. “Go away, Daenerys.”

 _No_ , Dany thought angrily, _I will not be sent off like an unwanted bastard child any longer_. The moment to settle the past was upon them. “I have forgiven you, Doreah. Why can you not do the same for me?”

The same disbelieving laugh that she had heard before bubbled over Doreah’s lips. It felt like ice rain and filled Dany with shame almost immediately although she could not understand why. “Because you still believe that I did something requiring of your forgiveness. Just leave me before I mistake you for a feral dog and take my steel to your throat.”

The ache grew more unbearable with those hard words which had no right coming from Doreah. She could not imagine that such a fate could be much worse than the friendless, helpless, dangerous and bitterly lonely life she found herself in. Nothing would soothe her more than crawling under some sleeping furs with Doreah as they used to do and drifting to a dreamless sleep. That alone felt like more of a futile dream than taking the Iron Throne. Instead of saying it aloud, she slowly got to her feet and stumbled through the night back to the fires of the _khalasar_.

Inside their slaves tent, she stayed awake, waiting for Doreah to push aside the flap and settle onto a sleeping mat nearby. Eventually however, she fell into an anxious sleep. The Lyseni never returned.

 

The indigo sky began to turn to a husky pink glow as the sun rose over the Great Grass Sea and with its daily return the _khalasar_ began to stir. Daenerys was first. She crawled out of the tent quickly, stepping carefully over bodies of sleeping women and children in her haste before finding herself drawing in a deep breath of the fresh morning air. A dampness hung about but it was warm and the sunrise inviting. She strode eagerly past the outskirts of camp towards the mound she had met Doreah at the previous night. Tripping over her own toes, she landed face down and still ascended quickly, crawling like an animal. Her desperation and curiousity propelled her upward.

Doreah was not there. The grass was flattened were she had been sat during the night, but no other trace of the Lysene girl remained. Pulling herself to her feet, Dany stood tall and peered over of the landscape.

Grass in every direction, unbroken waves of dry green and gold stretching over and beyond the horizon until they seemed to turn pale and milky, frothy. _This is how the world ends_ , she recalled Jorah telling her when he spoke of the Dothraki prophecy of ghost grass. _Or maybe it will just be the way my world ends_.

The vastness pulled at her heart and its emptiness cracked open the queenly armour she had worn for so long. Even the sounds of the _khalasar_ could not be heard here, just the rushing of wind through blades of green, crinkling and snapping against each other. Without warning, tears rushed down her face at how lost and alone she felt in the windswept desolation. There would be no escape from this. _It is hopeless_ , she realised. She was useless and pathetically powerless as a slave; she hated it to the very base of her soul. Each day was misery growing upon misery and she felt the greyness seeping into her body as the flames of hope slowly withered and extinguished, one after another.

There had not been many instances where she had felt this cold and heavy. Each time had seen her with a friend, or more than one, to pull her out from the darkness. Now, amongst only whispers of the _hranna_ , she was utterly alone and fearful she lacked the strength to try any longer. She longed for Missandei, for Daario, for Jorah, Barristan, and even Rakharo or Kovarro. More strongly she wept for Irri and Drogo, falling to the ground to rip out handfuls of grass as her heart fissured finally.

 _Can you be so homesick when you have never known a home?_ Her home had been her people, her loves, but even they were splintered and broken.

Her strength was stolen from her with every tear and she knew now why queens must not cry. Limply, she snatched at the grass, hanging onto its long strands as if it was keeping her tethered to the earth. There was such darkness even in the bright sunlight of day; it was swallowing her and she lacked the power to truly resist the abyss below. She wept for Doreah too, the cold stranger who only served to remind her how wrong she had been, and how some sins were unforgivable, some loves destroyed forever. Each look at the brunette, each instance where those blue eyes fell so angrily upon her own, had cut at her, slicing her raw. Her scars may not be visible, but they were there, living red wounds burning under her skin. Did no one notice? Did Doreah not see?

Once she had. Under the cover of night, they would share her bed and Doreah would kiss her softly as if placing her lips on every invisible scar, healing each wound. Her fingertips would brush across unblemished skin but inside Dany could feel the pain being closed up and pushed away. Drogo's death, the Red Waste, all her mistakes and fears faded as Doreah knew exactly where to find them and chase them away. In turn, she would attempt to repay the favour, banishing memories of a childhood lost to slavery and men's lust with her hands, lips, and gentle whispers.

Doreah had loved her once, truly. She realised as much now. Except that was gone and she was left on the Dothraki Sea, friendless, broken, and despairing. Sobbing quietly, Daenerys began to doubt her ability to hang on.

            _You will see exactly what life is worth when all the rest has gone_. The Lhazareen _maegi_ 's words haunted her once again. In the past she had never quite grasped the reason; she had believed she'd hit the bottom of the well. Yet always, even at the worst, she had at least one friend, one confidant, or one kind face. This time, it was different. There was no one at all.

            _All the rest has gone_ , she thought. _And life is worth nothing. I am nothing._

She had never been nothing before. Now, she was terrified. So she cried.


	7. Daenerys IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very conflicted about this chapter. I tried to write it away, edit the narrative so this did not need to take place. It is problematic for a host of reasons (primarily the "Women in Refrigerators" trope) but honestly I could not find a way around it. It fits with the story and is very much something this particular villain would do, unfortunately. (He has a canon history of such things.) All that said, content warning for sexual violence in this chapter.

A call of a vulture woke her finally. She had collapsed, exhausted from her weeping, in the grass and by the position of the sun in the sky, she had been gone for many, many hours. Likely no one had even noticed. There was no way to tell what Khal Jhaqo wanted from her any longer. Dany was a prisoner, that was clear, but otherwise he seemed indifferent to her presence as they continued their agonisingly slow journey towards Vaes Dothrak. Perhaps he knew what such uncertainty and isolation would do to her, the torment it would inspire. It was all part of his punishment. She could not put the thought aside as Jhaqo had always had a streak of sadism to him, and intelligence beyond that. He likely knew exactly what the situation was doing to her.

Her very bones felt heavy as she trudged back towards the village and her muscles seemed to protest every movement. She was so very tired. Laha rushed to her as she returned asking where she had been for the day and picking the dried grass out of her white hair. Dany shrugged off the question and took a sip of water from a flask, seating herself near the cooking fire in some semblance of trying to appear helpful but she had no strength left to truly care.

The heavy, suffocating feeling lifted momentarily as there was a thundering rush of hooves. The warriors had returned successful as they plowed through the _khalasar_ on horseback, kicking up dirt and sand and shaking the very foundations of the earth with their power. It had been a favourable raid, Dany could see. The riders carried sacks of coins; their vests, hands and _akrah_ s covered in blood. They were shouting in triumph and the slaves and free Dothraki cheered in kind. Behind the massive parade of hunters and fighters came the rest of the horde pulling newly captured slaves behind their horses, some bloodied and beaten; others just mud-soaked. It turned Dany’s stomach to see, especially the women with their split lips, blood covered thighs and terrified eyes. Khal Jhaqo had not changed from the devil she’d known him as.

The horses kept coming, free Dothraki men and women astride carrying all the spoils of war, and within them, she saw a familiar face. Doreah was mounted and galloping alongside the free people. A slave, on horseback, with a weapon and a glorious looking steed. She was bleeding from a cut to her arm but she appeared to not even be acknowledging it. The _khal_ circled around the _khalasar_ and galloped towards the rear of the parade, coming up beside Doreah and speaking to her familiarly, with something resembling a smile even. Dany could not hear the words over the roar of hooves and shouts but she saw Jhaqo take the large bundle from Doreah who nodded and then he pointed in her direction before riding away again. The Lysene girl pulled hard on the reins and her beautiful mount trotted towards Dany.

There was nothing the queen could think to say as the shock of seeing Doreah as part of the raiders settled uncomfortably in her gut, twisting and cramping until she felt sick with the idea. Laha was unperturbed by the vision and doted on the horse, feeding it a root vegetable of some sort and Daenerys realised this must not have been Doreah’s first time riding with them. Tolui also came rushing out to greet the Lyseni and chatter about the blessings of the day. Doreah merely stared down at Dany unflinchingly.

“The _khal_ commands you to join him in his _okre_ immediately,” she stated with no indication of emotion whatsoever. Finally the sick rose into Dany’s throat. She knew too well what that implied and her knees trembled of their own accord as she swallowed bile. Strangely, the slave girl freed her foot from a stirrup and reached down for Dany’s hand, yanking hard, pulling her up onto the saddle as well.

Daenerys thought briefly of the songs of proud, brave knights who would do the same with their beloved princesses before riding off to a happy ending worthy of great acclaim. Yet Doreah was no knight, Dany was no longer a princess, and the outcome of this ride would not be a happy one. All the same, she wrapped her arms tightly around Doreah’s waist and pressed her cheek against the hot, sun-stained skin of the other girl’s back. She hadn’t meant to but she feared that any looser and she would fall. Her legs felt so weak and her body shook with newfound fear when Doreah gave a kick and the horse began moving.

 

As they rode in a slow walk through the _khalasar_ , Dany could feel the gentle rippling of the other girl’s muscles against her face, the heat from a day in the sun soaked into her skin, and under her tightly held arms her fingers brushed against ropes of scars which now adorned Doreah’s abdomen. Without noticing she brushed a fingertip slowly across one, wondering how it happened, what horrors her handmaid had seen. There was no mistaking the slight raise of gooseflesh her simple movement provoked but the rider said nothing. Dany found her own eyes squeezed closed and realised suddenly that this was closest she had been to another person in a very long time. A deep, longing ache rumbled through her body and mind at the sad truth. She coiled even tighter around Doreah.

Too soon the ride came to an end. Khal Jhaqo’s tent was elaborately designed, far more than Drogo’s had been. This was a _khal_ more concerned with appearance, she decided. As his bloodriders escorted her roughly inside, she briefly wondered where Jhaqo’s _khaleesi_ s were. Her Drogo had always come to her to celebrate though other _khal_ s were known to take slaves as they pleased as well. She had interacted only briefly with Khaleesi Bhithi and it had been barely polite let alone amicable. She had only ever seen the other _khaleesi_ from a distance. _Was I as aloof and seemingly unconcerned with the common people?_ she had found herself wondering at the time.

The _khal_ was seated in the centre of his massive bed, naked and his manhood already hard and red, straining in her direction. Her stomach churned with disgust and fear. Suddenly, a body slammed into her back and she whirled around to see Doreah had been roughly shoved in beside her. Her old friend refused to meet her inquiring gaze. Instead she was fixed on Jhaqo with the same emotionless stare that was so common in Doreah’s eyes now.

 _So it isn’t just for me alone. It’s not just me she hates_.

Jhaqo grunted a command in Dothraki and Doreah immediately moved forward, pushing a confused Dany aside. She turned briefly as she brushed by and whispered with a warning hiss, “Stay quiet.”

The moment Doreah was within the _khal’_ s reach, his hands were on her, tearing at her clothes as she stood there unmoving and unflinching, even as he pulled at her top and reopened the fresh wound on her arm.

It disturbed her how Jhaqo kept glancing in her direction, his murky brown eyes penetrating her own even as he forced Doreah under him.

 _I am meant to watch,_ she knew as she attempted to adopt Doreah’s cold stare in return. The motivation was less clear at the outset and the _khal_ seemed to take her own stare as a challenge. His smirk grew wider as he grasped Doreah by the hair and savagely twisted her onto her stomach. Each place he laid his hands bore angry red bruises and as he yanked her hips up, Dany could make out fresh bruises where his fingers had dug in unnecessarily deep.

There was nothing gentle about this beast. Even her first nights with Drogo seemed _kind_ compared to what she saw here, despite Doreah obviously trying valiantly not to make a sound as he plowed relentlessly into her, as he pulled hard on her hair as if she were no better than a horse. It was horrible. It was torture. Dany knew now why she was meant to watch this. Jhaqo knew precisely how crushing this would be. Whatever prizes Doreah was given it was not because she was a warrior. It was because she was a bedslave, as she had been since the age of nine. Dany felt completely powerless and the tears threatened to spill over her cheeks. Jhaqo’s dark glare fixed upon her, a mixture of malice and pleasure, as he brutally forced himself in Doreah in front of her eyes.

 _Cold_. Everything was so cold inside the tent despite the high temperature. It ground into her bones and her skin crawled, wracked with tremors in the face of such vicious malevolence. Her reservoir of fire was no match for the icy fear as it thickened her blood. _This was revenge_. It was meant for her. For what she had done to him those years ago after the Lhazareen sacking when she had denied him the spoils of war and prevented the brutal violation of the women in its wake, when she had tried to save Eroeh and all those women from this specific touch. Now he took the person he knew meant most to her, her beloved Doreah, and forced Dany to recognize his ultimate malevolent power. The blackness she had felt out in the grass returned to her with a great, violent sweep. The urge to be ill was overwhelming and in an attempt to withhold her vomit, she cried out instead.

“Please!”

 _A queen does not cry._ But here she was no queen. Saltwater prickled threateningly at the corners of her eyes and she felt as if wildfire itself was burning to be freed. She could not hold it at bay any longer. As her words escaped, so too did her tears.

Jhaqo grinned menacingly at her outburst and her gaze shifted to Doreah would looked at her with her own tears in her eyes and a look of fear on her face as if she knew a worse scene would come now.

 _Stay quiet,_ she had warned. _Stay quiet_. And Daenerys couldn’t even do that simple task. Another failure.

The _khal_ continued to pump into her as he pushed Doreah’s cheek into the mattress with one large hand, forcing Dany to look upon her face. His other came to her upper arm where the cut was still fresh and seeping blood. Without hesitation, he dug into the laceration with a calloused finger, tearing open the barely healed skin. Doreah screamed in pain, an ear-shattering cry that Dany had never heard before. She had so resolutely withheld sound and tears before but now both spilled forth in torrents. Dany stood frozen in shock as Jhaqo gave Doreah a glancing blow to the head as warning for her cry, still twisting deeply in her wound and blood rushed down her arm, dripping onto the furs of Jhaqo's bed. She wondered if the wound had been something inflicted upon Doreah purposely and not a token of the raid after all. The idea that this whole instance had been planned, and likely Doreah knew what was going to happen to her for Dany’s sake, dismayed her. Doreah had said nothing and allowed the old queen of Meereen to cling onto her for comfort when it was the opposite that was needed.

It was a sickening scene and Dany felt her head becoming light and each sound she made seemed to make Jhaqo treat Doreah worse. But she could not stop. Sucking back her weeping and finding her legs solid and responsive still, she lunged towards the _khal_.

“Stop! I command you to stop!” she shouted in Dothraki, spitting with rage and disgust but her voice broke noticeably, falling to pieces as her mind was. The _khal_ glowered at her, his grip tightening around Doreah’s arm.

“ _Don’t. Khaleesi_ , please,”” Doreah begged, forgetting the situation and how much the title would rile Jhaqo. But she was pleading for mercy as Dany’s reactions would certainly result in further retribution. She could see Jhaqo fuming at the insinuation that Doreah still considered Daenerys a _khaleesi,_ and necessarily then Drogo a _khal_ still.

The words resounded hard in Dany’s ears, an echo of so many years ago. This time she would listen.

_A dragon is never afraid._

Her back straightened and the warlord paused, his muscles relaxing momentarily. “Khal Jhaqo. It is _our_ score you wish to settle. It is me you wish to punish, so _take me_. Let her leave.”

He barred his teeth in what perhaps was a smile; it sent a shudder over her skin as he continued to abuse Doreah. But it only lasted a moment longer, his eyes locked on Dany’s own distressed face as he finished. Immediately following his release, he pushed Doreah aside like a sack of refuse. He laughed then, a low grumble that sounded more like a growl as he lay back on his furs and bellowed for his bloodriders. Unsure of what she should do, Dany lingered, lowering her eyes, waiting as Doreah slipped her clothes on as best she could despite the pain. Varo and Qaharah stormed into the _okre_ and glanced over the scene before ushering both women briskly from the tent as the two _khaleesis_ were escorted in. Athi avoided them all together yet Bhithi gave her a withering glare as they passed, a pleased smirk across her thin lips at the state of Doreah and the trembling, pale dragon queen.

It disturbed Dany beyond even what Jhaqo himself had done that one woman could wish such a thing on others. She hated the _khaleesi_ and vowed to make her pay just as she would one day make the _khal_. This score was far from settled. If anything, it had been reborn. Vengeance boiled her blood anew as she stood trembling in her helpless body.

 Qaharah manhandled her roughly on the way back to their tent but she was glad that Varo was with Doreah as he gently led her back, holding her upright when she stumbled and taking care not to grab her injured arm. During a quiet moment away from the curious stares of the rest of the _khalasar_ , she witnessed him take a silk cloth to Doreah’s cheek and clear away the stains of dried tears and the Lyseni offered him a grateful, more sincere smile than Dany had seen on her face in weeks. They laughed quietly before she shooed him away playfully and pointed towards where Tolui was stirring some boiled rabbit in a cauldron. The younger girl’s face lit up as Varo approached and Daenerys marvelled at how quickly life in the _khalasar_ just continued on as if despicable horrors had not just transpired. How could it be so?

 _Had my khalasar been the same? Did my sun and stars also participate in such tactics before I was sold to him? What about afterwards?_ She didn’t want to consider the answer.

 

When she glanced back towards Doreah across the camp, there was nothing but the dusky colour of sunset and shadows.

 


	8. Doreah III

Everything ached. Every muscle resisted the climb. Her head throbbed and her arm felt as if it had been torn from her body. Each pulse of blood burned between her legs. More than the whippings and beatings at the hands of greedy men from the Free Cities and exiles from Westeros, it had been worse than anything she had ever experienced and nothing like her previous encounters with Jhaqo. The rough sex was not new, the violence was. It had been all to damage Daenerys, she knew. Doreah knew the distinctive feeling of being used far too profoundly. The harsh sting brought tears to her eyes and the knowledge tasted like bile in her throat, sickened her and angered her far more than nearly anything she had felt. Time and time again, she had been used as a pawn in some larger game for someone else’s pain and some other man’s gain. Every pulse of blood through her wound thrummed with hatred for being in such a position yet again and with anguish at knowing how inhuman she was to everyone. She couldn't decide whether she wanted to scream in anger or to sob like a young girl.

Her injury was a revenge ploy against Daenerys. She was a mere object. The years she had spent gaining Jhaqo’s favour turned to dust in an instant when Dany reappeared. Even the _khaleesis_ were far less approachable and Bhithi was downright hostile when previously she had been at least tolerant.

Her fingers delicately traced over the raw skin and the horsehair stitching that was tentatively holding the crude gash together, wincing when she considered the ragged scar it would no doubt leave. The eunuch, Dhayo, did the best suture work and Killa provided the most pleasing poultices, but even so they could not make a scar disappear.

 _Just another addition to my collection of failures_ , she mused disheartened. It had been easy at first to convince herself that the life she was living was for the best, and it had been even easier to convince Daenerys that she was happy here. Her tears in the last few hours obliterated that mirage.

Nothing about the encounter had been expected and the surprise doubled the pain. The _khal_ had never been so sadistic, not to her at any rate. She shuddered to think of the slaves he had claimed in previous raids and what those screams coming from his tent had really implied.

A flock of blackbirds swarmed overhead against the purple glow of twilight. The breeze ruffled the meadowgrass gently and Doreah took a long breath in, trying to flush the writhing memories from her mind. _The birds are so free,_ she thought with longing, _flying anywhere_ , _carefree on the wind_. They had a flock and they had the entire sky to themselves. Doreah would have given anything in the world for wings, and a flock of her own.

The air around her shifted and she felt heat beside her, knowing who it was already. Long ago, she had believed Daenerys was her wings. How wrong that had been. Yet now for the first time since her arrival, the silence between them was not hostile and full of unspoken curses. It was calm and reflective. The blonde shifted in the grass and pulled forward a small bag. Slowly she removed a selection of fabrics and small packages and laid them out on the ground. Filling a small wooden bowl with warm water from a flask, she dipped a soft cloth into and brought it to Doreah’s face, wiping a smudge of dried blood from her cracked bottom lip. It smarted yet made the cut hurt less.

It was odd to be on the receiving end of such care, especially at the hand of the woman who used to be her princess. The water stung her arm wound as Dany worked slowly, trying not to anger the bruising or burst the sutures. Doreah hissed in a sharp breath between her teeth.

Dany leaned her head to the side, studying the incision until she spoke softly. “Once, when my hands were raw and coated in sores from riding, my handmaids washed my skin, made a salve, and bandaged me sweetly. One told me stories to take my mind away from the pain, stories that I treasured because they were about something she loved, that we both loved.” Dany’s voice became incredibly gentle and wistful as she spoke, her hands meticulously sliding salve over the wound as Doreah attempted to withhold a flinch as it stung more painfully.

“I remember,” Doreah whispered, her voice shaking for the first time. She could feel herself quaking uncontrollably and she frantically attempted to quell it.

Daenerys sighed as she reached for a bandage. Her voice sounded as if it was coming from elsewhere, as if it was a shadow seeping out of long ago. “I lost my beloved husband and felt like dying myself. But I found my children.” She smiled briefly at the thought. “Then, something strange came from nothing and I felt love again, love that I did not ever expect.” A finger trailed almost ghost-like across the slave’s wrist, as if lost in thought.

Doreah had no words. Dany had never so much as hinted at any of her feelings towards whatever arrangement they had after Drogo’s death. It was jarring to learn that perhaps the queen had loved her. All along she had merely assumed it was one-sided, that Dany only would ever love her sun and stars, Khal Drogo. And that knowledge had been accepted; it hadn’t bothered her – not nearly the same as it had worn on Ser Jorah’s sense over time. She had already been given her freedom, and the relationship with Daenerys had merely been an extra benefit; she had thought of no reason to push or question her princess. Daring to hope for something more substantial had never once crossed her mind.

She felt the gauze tighten around her arm as Daenerys finished the dressing, covering it then with other fabrics and a few feathers. Doreah glanced down and realised it looked very similar to the armband she once wore proudly as the _khaleesi_ ’s servant and a lump formed unbidden in her throat at the significance. The brassard had been given to her one afternoon in the _khalasar_ , before the celebration of Dany and Drogo’s son that she bore inside her. In the Dothraki tradition, Irri said, the _khaleesi_ made them herself and gave them to her slaves in her _khas_ to show ownership. To be given one was the utmost honour and was to be worn on special occasions. But Dany had said that although they appeared just so to everyone else, Irri and Doreah were not her slaves—they would never be slaves of hers because she did not keep slaves. As she had tied the band around Irri's bicep, she recounted the Westerosi traditions: in tourneys, a lady was said to tie an armband around her favourite knight who in turn showed great regard for the lady. Doreah recalled turning away, flushing pink, as Dany's fingers had brushed over her arm, attaching the cloth. The _khaleesi'_ s eyes had been so warm and her small smile so sincere. Doreah had never been anyone's favourite before, at least no one who was not already paying for her. She never wished to take it off again.

Even after both she and Irri’s arms became too thin to hold them in place during the journey through the Red Waste, the feeling was not forgotten. She remembered Qarth. Laying with Dany one quiet night, her skin cooling and her bare limbs tangled in the finest linens, she watched the _khaleesi_ sitting cross-legged and swathed in a delicate Qarthian nightdress as she made a new one for her. That time, she had asked for it; it was important for the token to be replaced. Even as just scraps of Dothraki woven canvas and old feathers, it was still the most important gift anyone had given her; it was a symbol of gratitude and affection and freedom. She also remembered how one of Xaro’s guards had ripped it from her arm as he made a grab for her and she had twisted aside. At that time, she did not realise what a foreboding omen his careless action really had been.

 

As she looked down now, it all came back to her. And no doubt Daenerys as well.

“My lover broke my trust in an unimaginably heartless and selfish way, endangering the lives of me and my dragons,” the blonde confessed in a small voice, focused almost entirely on adjusting the fabric and feathers to fully cover the bandages. “Love quickly turned to hate.”

Doreah had been watching the movement of her past princess’ lips as they released those words and finally pallid blue eyes glanced up to meet her own. She was surprised to see the glaze of growing tears there and she had to quickly duck her head down to avoid the same. “I remember that as well.” She sighed. “You never gave me a chance; you tried to kill me without a moment’s pause. I will never be able to forgive that. You speak of broken trust and betrayal as if it was only you.” She had to gather her thoughts together for a moment lest become far too emotional.

It was easy to see that Daenerys wanted to ask for details, for explanations, for whatever she had refused to hear in those moments before condemning her handmaid to death. However, Doreah was not certain she was fully capable of talking about it yet, especially to her executioner. So she offered no further information. One day, perhaps, but not soon. After a long stretch of silence, Dany spoke.

“Khal Jhaqo will pay for all he has done.” Her voice was resolute and dark, harnessing her strength finally. It was a promise but Doreah looked toward Daenerys, still a small girl haphazardly finding her way and sadly doubted the truth of that claim. They said nothing else, sitting together on the mound as night fell in a soft blanket all around them.

This time, she did not ask Daenerys to leave her alone.

 

* * *

 

 

The following days had much the same pattern to them. Doreah would wake, perform her duties for the _khalasar_ , share meals with Tolui, Laha, and their families and at evenfall, she would sneak away from the makeshift village to the open grasslands beyond. As the stars would poke out from their dimming curtain, Daenerys would find her and they would sit, neither speaking until the last hint of pink faded from the horizon. Eventually, when the chill of prairie nights began to seep into their bones and the feral dogs began their howling, Daenerys would stand, say just a single word of goodnight, and leave.

There was no more Jhaqo for her. Short of executing her in front of Daenerys, her usefulness as a tool of torture had been exhausted. Occasionally some of his more brazen bloodriders would approach and sneer insistently that the _khal_ had sent them for pleasuring. Even without the unspoken protection of being Khal Jhaqo's personal concubine, Doreah dismissed them with no fear. She knew they were only testing and likely were not completely aware that Jhaqo had no interest in her any longer. They were free to beat and mount her if they so pleased, but most were not aware; she still had to agree—for now. Whilst most secrets often spread like wildfire in the _khalasar,_ the _khal_ 's business thankfully was more well-guarded. She used that ignorance to her advantage. The fact that she was still given use of her horse was all the evidence she needed to convince them. Her skill with a blade and her lack of fear going into a raid were still seen as an advantage to the roving outriders, and as such, she continued to be given a place to ride amongst them, her scars—even the newest one—seen as marks of boldness.

 

Days turned to weeks, and still Daenerys would find her every night. Even when the _khalasar_ moved and Doreah would choose a new direction to depart from, the blonde would emerge from the shadows beside her. It no longer became awkward to share the gentle swell of nightfall with another. The idea that they never spoke certainly helped. There was no expectation, no stress. It was just peace. There were some nights that Doreah could feel Dany itching to talk as the air buzzed and crackled. She would fidget more often, and sigh pointedly but yet she never dared break their silent agreement.

It wasn't surprising. Dany spoke very little to most people. She came to sup with Doreah's friends as well, but never engaged in the lively conversations. She would answer questions when asked, and sometimes offer up comments, but her mind always seemed to be elsewhere, locked up inside herself. She was not the mother of these people; they were content enough without her. They did not appear to need her saving grace.

Doreah recalled her first months in the _khalasar_ when she had been the same. She could share in none of the gossip and her own life experiences were so far removed from the slaves around her. Even the free Dothraki lived very different lives. But eventually, she had formed close friendships with a few other women and her place as a rider and as the _khal_ 's mistress earned her some respect. And more friendships. Daenerys appeared to lack the ambition to fully immerse herself again. Perhaps it was because the last time she had done so, it had only led her to heartbreak and grief. Perhaps it was also the weight of her uncertain future forcing her down. Even Doreah had no idea what Jhaqo's ultimate plan was. He seemed to be enjoying watching Daenerys slowly wither away as each misery of being a slave ate at her very soul. She suspected that he wanted to make her only a shell of her former self before handing her, unresisting, over to the _dosh khaleen_. That was Doreah's only reasoning behind the _khal_ dawdling through the Dothraki Sea as he was. It may not be visceral, but it was torture all the same. And it had the distinct scent of a woman's interference. Jhaqo was crafty, but never so patient. Like most Dothraki warriors he preferred the splattering of blood as a solution. Daenerys' punishment stunk more of the _khalees,_ Bhithi.

However, even with this knowledge, the handmaid could not find it within herself to outstretch a warm kindness to the woman who had once attempted to kill her. She had no wish to see Dany harmed any longer, but there was an impenetrable wall somewhere deep inside that prevented her from reaching out to the miserable girl. She wasn't proud of this weakness but nevertheless, it existed and she could not work out how to overcome it.

 

One evening after a particularly irate Thekla berated Daenerys harshly and repeatedly about the way she had skinned the rabbit, she saw the pain clearly. Pale azurite eyes had turned grey and dull as she tuned out the reprimand. Likely the older woman had no idea; she merely saw an incompetent slave incapable of even the most basic task. Yet Doreah saw the wince, she saw the trembling in those ashen fingers and the further sag of once-proud shoulders.

When Dany joined her in the grass later, Doreah actually turned to acknowledge her presence, something that up until that point had been an ignored formality. She felt the heat continuing to radiate off the hot-blooded queen, and even more intensely than usual. Daenerys was seated quite close.

It could have been guilt. Or empathy. Or perhaps even compassion. But when Dany tentatively slipped her hand into Doreah's, she didn't shirk it off or pull away, although they still did not speak.

 _She ruined your life_ , that small voice nagged inside her head. _She betrayed you and tried to kill you. You're meant to hate her_.

Something else made her tighten her grip.

It must have shocked even Daenerys because the brunette caught the look of surprise on her young face and in a moment of impulsiveness she shifted closer still, a silent invitation for Dany to rest her head on her shoulder as they used to do many years ago. She felt the sigh brushing over her chest as silver-blonde hair gently tickled her neck and the glowing skin of her old friend relaxed against her. Their fingers remained entwined for the remainder of the evening in the meadow.

She could have sworn to the gods that she had felt a tiny sob from the small queen but when she looked down there were no tears to confirm it. Instead, Dany had fallen asleep.


	9. Tolui II

“The pale one smiles,” Laha whispered conspiratorially with a snicker. The younger slave looked up from her mending of Varo's leather vest to sweep her gaze over the jumble of busy slaves in her midst. Indeed, Daenerys Targaryen was smiling—a large grin that showed her teeth and crinkled the corners of her eyes. It was such an odd sight that Tolui could not help staring unblinkingly at her, mesmerized. 

In the moons that she had been travelling with the _khalasar_ , Tolui had seen no more than polite tight-lipped grimaces that were supposed to be smiles. Today something was very different. It was in the air around everyone, as if the spring breeze was sprinkling blessings on all of them, promising only of good things to come. Children were racing about, throwing up dirt from their bare feet and toppling over piles of grains in their reckless play. Mothers were watching fondly instead of screeching their harsh reprimands. The bloodriders could be seen further away racing their beautiful horses and slamming their chalices together in camaraderie. Old men were chiseling new blades or peeking around tents as they played hide-and-seek with the young ones. Yes, something pleasant was in the air this day.

Yet still, it was Daenerys' smile that was captivating. There had always been good days and bad days in the _khalasar._ However, there had never been a day when the silver-haired woman had smiled.

 _It must be an omen_ , Tolui thought with satisfaction.

The rest of her friends and family had initially considered the prisoner strange and dangerous. She had a frightening dragon, had hair the colour of ghost grass and eyes of no natural hue. Moreover, she horrified the _khal_ , the mightiest warrior of all. He condemned her a _maegi_ and ordered no one to touch her. _Her blood magic must be strong_ , the women had whispered, shunning her and her illness. The Pale Mare spared no life when it decided to take a soul, regardless of bloodlines. It was languageless, colourblind, and deadly silent. Riding the turbulent, unharnessed back of the Pale Mare, the wan stranger was disease personified.

Each night they would pray that no harm would befall the _khalasar_ from the pallid intruder. With their voices undulating and twirling together, the barren women sang spells and cursed her dragon with ancient words that Tolui had never heard before, and even asking Laha who knew too much was of no use. Neither recognised them—but the sentiment was clear. Each day, freedpeople would attempt to convince the _khal_ that she must be slain in ritual as to spare the entire _khalasar_ from ruin. Daenerys was from a hell beyond the sea and came from deep in the earth. Her blood must be shed, they said. Jhaqo killed only one man who begged him to end it as the _dosh khaleen_ would demand. He had answered that no one should speak for the crones and they will decide the fate of this evil _maegi_. He had no wish to anger the Great Stallion, nor its faithful servants. Although they did not understand, no one plead with him after that.

Upon learning of this, Yeo, her little brother, had asked if the _khal_ was afraid of the Pale One. He had been beaten for his disparaging words. Tolui wondered the same even so, but having seen sixteen namedays meant she was wiser than to ask such questions, even in the privacy of their tent.

The only person unafraid of Daenerys had been Doreah. The bloodriders spoke ill of her behind her back but it seemed to stem from jealousy. She was the only one brave enough to face the shadow of death, especially during the night. The knowledge that Khal Jhaqo himself had granted her permission to do so implied that he respected her courage. Even the black monster grew quiet for her. Brave men killed dragons, it was known, but there were not many brave men in the _khalasar_ during the day the dragon stayed with them. Doreah was the only one to boldly approach it without hesitation. It acted strangely toward her, sniffing and making a low rumble like a hundred well-fed _hrakkars_ at once, even eating from her hand when she held out a cooked leg of horse. The beast never grew agitated, lashing about and hissing in the ways it tended to when the men drew near. Her uncle spat that it must not worry about fools; it feared only strong men. To him, the blue-eyed slave girl was _toki_. Stupid. He always said that about her. _Doreah Tokik_ , he called her, sometimes to her face. She never responded to his words, just glared as if she could not hear them. Nothing seemed to hurt her and it made the people suspicious.

Doreah had always been a subject of gossip amongst the women, riders, slaves, and children alike. It was known that she once was in the mighty Khal Drogo's _khalasar_ , where Khal Jhaqo had also been _ko,_ where she served the _khaleesi_ with unwavering loyalty and devotion. She could ride, she could handle a blade, she was adorned with scars of victories and she was beautiful in her own unusual way. In the beginning, Tolui's aunt often snickered about the state of the _messhihven_ girl, growling about how pallid her skin was and how she was not worthy of riding such a strong mare and participating in outriding with the men. But Khal Jhaqo kept her under his thumb and it was no secret that she pleasured him (and his bloodriders) very well when he commanded; and soon her skin tanned a deep golden colour so that her blue eyes stood out even more. Neither of the _khaleesis_ looked particularly fondly on her, and she was never offered a place in their _khas_ , but with Jhaqo's favour, it did not appear necessary.

From the moment she rode up to their _khalasar_ on a very powerful, well-groomed mare, Tolui had been curious about this stranger with eyes like the sky in summer. Blue eyes were unwelcome since the time of the Long Winter. If Doreah could ride with the men, mayhaps other girls like her would be able as well. It was true all true Dothraki knew how to ride, but skill level differed and Tolui was far too lowly to be a great concern to teach; even Varo hesitated when she had asked him. For a slave girl like her however, riding was most important to gain respect later. Just like Doreah. The concubine was not alone in her abilities to ride with the column. Most free men and women also rode during the long marches but she was the only foreign slave given that freedom in Khal Jhaqo’s _khalasar_.

Within weeks she had begged Doreah to teach her to ride enough that the Lyseni relented and gave her lessons when the chores were light. By the brazier at sup, and even into the evening, she would bombard the older girl with questions and Doreah answered with the loveliest fanciful stories from all over Essos, and all over the rest of the world—a place that felt so incomprehensible and huge. The only stories she did not share were the ones that told of her scars. It did not take long for the slave to fit in amongst them and even ugly old Thekla softened eventually. Only some of the men still regarded her with displeasure.

Other than her little brother, Doreah was Tolui's favourite person in the entire _khalasar_. Maybe the whole world. She dare not say that to anyone, not even Mishi or Laha. Mishi was her older sister but sought favour of Yollo, one of Jhaqo's _ko_ and would do and say anything to win him over—including selling out her siblings. A girl should not idolise another slave, especially an _ifak_ ; she should look only to the _khaleesi._ Laha was older as well, and a much better friend, but she liked to talk. A lot. She was always talking.

It was Laha that said Daenerys had been Drogo's _khaleesi_. Some of the older women recognised her, she said. But Tolui was not certain of that. If she was that _khaleesi_ , Jhaqo should have taken his beautiful _arakh_ to her already as it was known the punishment for refusing the _dosh khaleen_ was death or swift exile, she thought, and neither of those had come to pass. Everything Laha, Misha, and her aunts said made sense however and Daenerys really did seem to resemble Drogo's _khaleesi_.

 

So, one day as they mended sandals for the barren women, she asked Doreah. She would know the truth. The only answer she received was, “That _khaleesi_ is dead.” No amount of pleading would entice the older girl to elaborate and that had been the only day Doreah seemed to grow irrationally angry at her and took her sup at another firepit alongside some outriders that Tolui did not like at all. Now she tried not to speak of Daenerys around Doreah.

That was becoming more and more difficult as everyone could see Daenerys had eyes only for Doreah. She tended to follow her around, taking on the same tasks even though the pale one was terrible at mending anything and could barely skin a rabbit. She was a good cook however. Her stew was best.

Girls having friends, especially close ones, partners, was not unknown in their _khalasar_. Many girls had close friends like sisters. She had Laha even. Mishi had her own sister-friends. Her mother and aunts had each other, and their own sister-friends. Even her grandmother had three sister-friends and she was very old and grumpy. What caused the women to chatter was that Doreah appeared to show no interest in Daenerys, choosing instead to keep company with Tolui and Laha if given a choice, or even some of her other female friends, the older ones that Tolui did not know so well but were all very sophisticated. Like Mishi tried to be. And the men. Doreah liked the _khal_ ’s riders very much and they liked her even more. Prior to the Pale One's coming, she often spent time with them around their fires and in their _okres_ all night long. It was known.

 

Daenerys frightened everyone and they shunned her in turn, and Doreah as well if the blonde was near. Many of her people did not even like her name. It did not roll properly from the lips like a good Dothraki name. Many of the elders made funny grimace faces when trying to say it, as if the word itself was sour and unpalatable. Instead they all called her _Dani_ , if they chose to call her anything other than _messhihven_. It sounded better. Doreah would not say it yet. She always said “Daenerys” in full and often her voice would sound angry or sad, not like Doreah at all. It was very strange indeed. Everyone noticed.

Tolui wanted so badly to ask Doreah what was happening. Everyone wanted to know but the Lysene girl never spoke of it so the women were left to speculate amongst themselves. Varo said he had been told by Luko that Doreah said Daenerys was just an inept child who did not know any better, that the fever had left her without many wits, that she was as useless as she was stupid. It did not sound like something the Doreah she knew would say but it was all Tolui had. Her mother maintained that the _messhihven_ was cursed and they all would be as well unless they kept away. Gradually, this faded as Daenerys was always around and although she was not much use as a slave, she was following Doreah's lead and offering to help. Her ways were timid and hesitant, and she was quick to anger when frustrated which made teaching her a chore in itself. Only Thekla was indifferent enough to ignore Daenerys' outbursts without offense. And even the bloodriders enjoyed her cooking when they would stop by the firepit.

When they travelled, unless she was roving as an outrider, it was Doreah who held the rope that tied the blonde's hands. Khal Jhaqo did not trust her to walk along as a slave with no bondage. So as Doreah rode, Daenerys was pulled behind.

 

Once Tolui had stopped to pick some thistleberries as they had a juice excellent for healing blisters and sores. The _khalasar_ had mostly gone ahead with only some of the younger slaves still dawdling behind the column. She was crouched in a ditch gathering as many berries as her skirt could hold when she saw the silver hair flash in the light as Dany stumbled forward. Doreah had slowed her mount to a stop and looked down on the prisoner. They were speaking in the Common Tongue, of which Tolui knew very little, and it appeared tense and heated. She could see that much at least. When together, they always seemed angry as if their spirits were at constant war with each other. That was another curiousity about those two girls, and no one understood they could be so hostile to each other but it had been Doreah who nursed Dany back to health, and Doreah that often appeared to protect her even though she was reluctant to do so. And Daenerys, she did not seem to care for the attention of anyone except the Lyseni despite how hateful they always were in each others' company. Yet, even so, she witnessed Doreah doing something that would surely see her whipped had any of the snitching free people or riders seen it.

She had allowed Daenerys to climb up behind her on the saddle. Tolui glanced around fearfully for any riders. There were other slaves around and it would likely be spread as gossip that night at camp, but idle talk rarely was made into punishment. That was not the Dothraki way. _Steel does not lie, but tongues can_.

A spike of jealousy shot through her blood at the sight of the small prisoner on horseback, her hands with fingers spread wide, sliding slowly and deliberately over Doreah's bare waist in a way that she had only seen her sister do with Yollo when they thought no one was watching. It should not have felt so strange yet it was and Tolui did not understand why. She did not understand why it bothered her so either. The women spoke no more words but the pale one was wrapped tight against Doreah. Tolui had to bite her tongue and swallow hard, spending considerable effort not to run past them to a rider and report this flagrant lack of concern for the order of things.

There had been many hot days on the Great Grass Sea when she had begged Doreah for a ride, just for a few moments, a league or two and every time the blue-eyed one had refused, citing her punishment if caught. _Their_ punishment. She did not wish for the younger girl to be beaten and it was best to suffer sore feet than a flogging. She recounted stories of the thousands of leagues she had walked through the Red Waste, across strange lands, through cities, over mountains. Those tales had been distraction enough and worked to ease the drudgery of the march. And essentially, it had just been more incentive to learn to ride herself. Then perhaps she and Doreah would ride together as outriders or scouts, swinging their _arakhs_ or letting loose their arrows. If nothing else, Tolui hoped that Varo would one day allow her to ride on his saddle with him. Then she could show the _khaleesis_ that she was not an ordinary slave. She was sophisticated and strong too, worthy of being free as her family once had been.

Of course the news of Doreah's transgression spread like brushfire through the _khalasar_ that night, but as no rider or trusted free person had seen it, they could not be punished. Qaharah skulked around their tents that night, sharing their sup, and all the while cutting his eyes menacingly at Doreah, who willfully took care not to react. That incident had taken the interest from a mild simmer to a boil. Everyone wanted to know what it meant. Of course her uncle said again that it was simply because she was _Doreah Tokik_ , the stupid one. Stupid girls do stupid things and clever men and women should not waste their time trying to understand fools. Tolui recalled that way Dany had touched Doreah though, so different than most touches, and felt there was something else her uncle was missing. As she thought on it, an ache began for Varo which only made her more confused.

 

“I hear she leaves every blue hour in order to gather blood and teeth from feral dogs so to make a _maegi_ dragon weapon,” Laha whispered, breaking her friend from the deep memories. Tolui’s dark brown eyes darted around curiously, seeing where Doreah was, assuming that the Pale One’s smile must be for her. But it was not; Doreah was nowhere to be seen. Dany was talking with her aunts instead. The world was not making sense. Furthermore, her aunt was smiling back. Beside her, Laha still cackled with pleasure at the image of the _messhihven_ wrestling the wild dogs.

“Do not be stupid,” Tolui scolded. “She is not strong or brave enough to fight a dog. It would bite her face and we would see.”

“Maybe the dogs are fearful of her _maegik_ too.” The older girl giggled again. “She probably burns them with her fire cunt. Just like she did the Khal.”

“Laha! Hush!” Tolui slapped a hand over her friend's mouth in fear. If anyone heard her speak ill of the great Khal, she would be beaten much worse than Yeo, and raped as well. There was no doubt Qaharah would not hesitate. He never did. “You should watch your tongue!”

Laha wriggled away and frowned, her face looking lop-sided and dark. “Why? Why do you defend her? Do you want to mount Dani as well?” There was a grim insinuation there and Tolui did not like the way it sounded to her ears. It was meant to hurt somehow.

Shaking her head adamantly, she glowered at her sister-friend, meeting the challenge there. “No, you _tokik_. I worry for you and your big ugly mouth. You will be beaten if the riders hear you saying such things! It is known.” She paused as Laha's face relaxed slightly. “Besides, I do not know what you mean about mounting Dani. That's a terrible thought.” Her voice had become almost petulant.

Then a smirk crossed Laha's lips. “Doreah then? Is she the one?”

Tolui was getting tired of her friend's words. Laha always played these games when days were boring and slow, trying to make her angry and say something foolish so that she could tease later which would begin the cycle again. “If there will be any mounting, I wish for Varo. And _only_ him.” She cared for Doreah, true. She looked up to her in a way that she had not found in anyone else. But these comments about laying with her were not true at all. Laha had a mischievous glimmer in her dark hazel eyes however that said she was just trying to annoy Tolui again. “Why would you say such things?”

Her friend shrugged and laughed lightly, poking a stick into the glowing coals of the fire and sniggering. “Botharo says that is why the pale one follows Doreah out to the grasses at night.”

Snorting, the younger girl grabbed the stick away. “Botharo is as clever as a pile of horse dung and has eyes like mud puddles. He is talking nonsense and only you listen.” She looked up to meet her friend's gaze. “Dani sleeps in the _okre_ with us every night. Alone. Or do you not remember?”

Laha rolled her eyes and shrugged again. “I am just having some fun. You are very sensitive these days all because Doreah has less time to tell you your baby stories.”

“They're not baby stories!” Tolui spat. “They're better than your stupid womantalk and tall tales from old drunkards anyway.” Her spine was stiffened and the fine hairs of her neck were bristling. She and Laha often had heated arguments that sparked and then faded quickly, like a firebug dancing in the summer night. Sometimes though, they spread more hotly. She suspected it was going to be the latter. It tended to be this way when Laha became too gossipy and judgmental. Tolui would get upset and they would fight until one walked away, usually Laha first. But by the next break of day, they would have forgotten it or her sweet friend Klas would have a word with Laha, or both of them. Too bad the same could not be said for all the snide fool talk about Doreah and Daenerys. She had heard just enough of it.

“Fine, Lu, just know that your stories will not make Varo love you. He does not love slave children!” And with that, an offended Laha stalked off towards the hearth of her mother and father. Tolui watched her flail her arms dramatically and she was shouting at her mother, likely about what just happened because every so often, Selwees would surreptitiously glance over in her direction. Shrugging it off, as she always did, as she had learnt from Doreah, Tolui continued to cook her bread. The aroma of cracked grains and sweet _hranna_ flour floated pleasantly around her, cloaking her in a protective bubble of mouth-watering warmth. Very few women could bake breads quite like she could; the skill over a cookpot was something she and Dany shared. No doubt Varo would be coming over soon to share the spoils of her labour.

 _He'd better come soon_ , she grumbled to herself. _He's the only person I can talk to who does not care to speak of the messhihven._ She was always thanking the Great Stallion for bringing Varo into the world.

 

Lost in thought of her stallion, she did not see Daenerys edging away from the older women and coming through the short grass toward her. It was only when silver hair breezed in front of her face and tickled her arm did she glance up in surprise. The pale one was peeking inside the cookpot where the bread was baking slowly. She hummed lightly as that unfamiliar smile pulled at her pink lips again.

“That smells delicious. Much better than _khashcal_ ,” she said lightly. Tolui flushed at the compliment although she did not know why. Most people did not bother to say nice things to her; all she did was expected of her; it was all her duty. One should not be praised for duty, it was said.

“Your _khashcal_ is better than the rest. My mother would never say so but she enjoys it more than her own. She told me so,” Tolui offered in return and was greeted with a warm smile.

Daenerys shrugged then, her smile fading. “It's still horse.”

Tolui nodded, unsure what more to say and feeling more awkward as she had no idea why the blonde was speaking to her. Gazing around, she saw Laha and her twin sister Erdene watching her from their fire. Some said that Erdene was the eyes and Laha was the mouth. Nothing ever seemed far from the sister’s vision, always watchful and quiet. It felt as if all the people she knew had gifts, even Laha who often was troubled by too much talk, but she had a lovely singing voice—even better than Gan, Khaleesi Ahri's slave who was known to earn great honours from her songs. Klas had softness, especially for a boy, and he had a touch that calmed horses. Mishi was beautiful and resourceful. Her small brother Yeo already showed much promise with a bow. Even her annoying uncle that was always speaking badly about Doreah was very skilled at fermenting the perfect cask of clotted mare's milk. It was an art, truly. There were others with so many talents from weaving beautiful tapestries to healing to clay and ironwork. All Tolui could do was bake some bread. No one cared for a baker slavegirl. That would not win her any favours from Varo or the Khaleesis. She needed to ride like Doreah.

She shifted her weight and pretended to be concerned about the _hranna_ bread, poking at it with a small stick, feeling those dark eyes fixated on her. Sometimes Erdene made Tolui feel trapped and uncomfortable. This was one of those times. The eyes that missed nothing were trained on her and Daenerys. One strangeness and word would spread all over the _khalasar_ about any nature of fool talk.

Perhaps she sensed the younger girl's discomfort because Daenerys moved away and took a seat on a wooden block nearby. There was silence for a while but it was heavy and Tolui knew Dany wanted to talk. Yeo went screaming by with war cries of Dothraki screamers, waving his small bow and arrow over his head as some neighbour boys chased him decked out in makeshift play-armor in the style of the savage world across the sea; the _Westerosi_ Doreah had called them. From behind the tent, two more boys leapt out in ambush, their wooden toy _arakhs_ smacking against the thick gnarled wooden branches that were meant to be longswords. Tolui could barely hear herself think with all the yelling and smashing of wood and she snapped around, shouting at Yeo and his friends to move on. As she did so, she saw Dany staring almost longingly at the boys at play. There was a grave sadness on her face that even a blind fool could have seen and she kept her eyes only on them until they swept around a large _okre_ and their screams faded into the noise of the busy _khalasar_.

            Eventually the fair-haired girl turned her gaze to the dirt at her feet, shuffling her sandalled toes through the dusty pebbles distractedly. The sigh that came out of her throat sounded like sad ghosts escaping and Tolui felt a shiver creep over her arms. Curiously, she wondered what existed of this girl before the Khal took her prisoner. Some said she was a queen in one of the slaver’s cities. Some said she was trying to destroy the way of Essos. Her uncle said she was a pale demon sent to plant the ghost grass around them. Thekla said she was no queen, never had been and never would be _. A queen should be able to skin a rabbit like she would skin her enemie_ s. And from what they all saw Daenerys was terrible at skinning everything. Even with a sharp knife, boiled sour apples gave her difficulty.

Then there were those who called her the Shameful Khaleesi. Those whispers were getting louder and louder these days. Many believed she really was Drogo's _khaleesi_.

            And now when Tolui looked at her, she could see a _khaleesi_.

            That was what worried her.

Finally Dany looked up, meeting the young Dothraki's ponderous gaze. “You are close with Doreah,” she said carefully yet impassively. It was not a question but Tolui nodded all the same.

“Has she—why does she not sleep in the tent at night?”

The question hung in the air as a pocket of wet dough hissed in the cooking pot. Tolui watched carefully for any hint of the reason behind the question. Dany still looked sad. She also looked puzzled and she meekly would not meet Tolui's eyes. That was never a good sign. As if following it up, Dany continued.

“She doesn't speak to me. About anything. You are her friend.”

“You are not?” Tolui was genuinely perplexed by the idea that two people could seem so close yet not be friends at all. Something deep and unspoken had happened. It was dark. She could see it plainly across the pale face, and when those blue eyes lifted to hers, they were grieving still for something long lost. Maybe it was where Doreah received those unspeakable scars, the red streaks of tangible memory that raked across her belly, thighs, and shoulders. By day they brought her honour in the _khalasar_ but provoked unseen terrors under the cover of night.

Dany slowly shook her head. “No longer. We were once.” There was a hard edge to her voice.

 _This is new,_ Tolui thought. It had been assumed that either Doreah was _toki_ or she and the _messhihven_ had a prior relationship. No other excuse could be found for her sudden interest in the sickly prisoner, and for once, Laha and all her frivolous womantalk was right. “What happened?” Tolui could not help herself. Her mother had always said she asked for too much, too many questions, too much curiousity.

A grimace crossed Daenerys' face at the question and again she shook her head. “It is much too long a story for now. Doreah can tell you. She is much better with stories, all sorts of fanciful tales I'm certain.” Her tone was getting less and less gentle as she spoke and Tolui sensed she had overstepped again. But the idea that Dany also knew of Doreah's stories meant they must have known each other well because as golden a tongue as Doreah had, she did not share her tales with just anyone. Tolui heard the most, but often times at evenfall, the Lysene slave would sit with little Johi—who had lost both parents in a clash with Khal Masso's _khalasar_ two years prior—in her lap and tell him fables of all manner of magical creatures. Even Yeo and his friends would sometimes listen with fascination. Getting Yeo to sit still and be quiet was a task in itself yet he did so for Doreah's stories. Mishi said that she must have an enchanted tongue indeed, that she no doubt put to good use with all the riders as well. Her snickering with their cousin Bideg had been cut short by her aunt smacking Mishi across the head and saying Doreah had a gift. Tolui thought Doreah had more gifts than anyone she ever knew.

“I apologise,” Tolui said meekly and Dany's head snapped up in surprise. A smile cracked her lips again.

“Do not worry. It was just another life ago.” She paused and let out a long huff of breath. “So, do you know why Doreah sleeps outside the _okre_ , Tolui?”

Her name sounded odd coming from Daenerys' lips but she thought she rather liked it. She smiled and her tongue loosened. “It is the night madness.”

“Night madness?”

 _Did the pale one not know of the night madness? She does not know much of anything sometimes_ , Tolui thought, curious how someone like her could have survived so long with so many disadvantages. Busying herself with turning the _hranna_ bread over, Tolui hummed. “Yes. The black sweat dreams that make a man into an animal at night.”

“Like a warg?” Dany asked, trying to work out the meaning. “A man turns into animal?”

Tolui screwed her lips together struggling to imagine another way to explain it. It was not like a ' _warg_ ', the strange Westerosi term which Tolui assumed was like a skinwalker, a _ldlooshi_. No _maegik_ was involved in the night madness. Shaking her head slightly she tried again. “No. Her dreams, they are terrors. Like a fever dream with no fever. The shadows in the head become real. It is a madness that comes only in the dark when the shadowworld and night lands join.” She did not feel right discussing this with Daenerys any longer, but the whole _okre_ knew of Doreah's sleeping habits so it was not exactly a secret. “She screams, and she fights in her sleep. And the crying is worst of all. But it only happens inside; when she is trapped in the blackness, she says.”

The night madness was an ugly beast that could only be fought alone. So few people tried to face it. Many just changed their ways and prayed that would keep it at bay, as Doreah had done. No one took her for a coward but this was one battle she shied away from. Even Killa and Haga's syrups, spells, and words of comfort could not defeat it, nor inspire Doreah to approach it face-to-face. It was known that the night madness could even bring down a weaker _khal_. It was no small wonder that Doreah would be afraid of it. “Doreah is the bravest woman I know,” Tolui stated with an air of admiration. “But even she is frightened of it.”

There was something in Dany's body language that implied she took some insult from the comment. Cocking her head to the side, her eyes narrowed slightly. “ _All_ of us can be brave when we must.”

 _Did I offend her honour? What has Daenerys done that is brave?_ Tolui did not know enough about the strange girl to know but she supposed that keeping company with a ferocious dragon monster was rather brave as well. She was about to mention as much to Dany when the blonde stood up abruptly and strode off, her stare fixed elsewhere. As she looked around Erdene was staring again. Always watching. A sudden crash from near the stew pot drew even the young one's attention.

Qaharah was standing, fuming, in a steaming puddle of stew thrown from a cookpot in Dany's hands. As he desperately attempted to brush away the burning liquid from his legs and belly, she stood in front of Bileg, blocking the bloodrider's path, angrily shouting at him in Dothraki. It was some nonsense about dragon's blood and mounting as Qaharah cursed her in the most evil ways. Yet everyone was staring at her hands.

Where Qaharah was blistering and red from the meeting of the stew with his beautiful copper skin, Daenerys' hands were only pinkened from the searing hot iron cauldron. She did not even notice the heat.

 _The Unburnt_ , Tolui remembered suddenly. _The one who slept in fire_. The whispers were real; it was certain beyond doubt. The pale one was Drogo's _khaleesi_ after all.


	10. Doreah IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. No excuses.

From where she was curled in Bataar’s furs, she first heard the screams. He was already perched on the edge of his straw-stuffed bed and reaching for his trousers and _arakh_. The yelling continued. Men’s voices, women’s voices, all manner of curses from what she could hear. Occasionally a shrill scream would pierce through the rest of the chaos. Part of Doreah just wanted to stay inside the _okre_ if it was Khal Pono’s riders sacking the _khalasar_. She could easily pretend it was not happening; she could have a few more moments of freedom and peace before being raped numerous times and slaughtered en masse with the rest of the slaves. Considering denial of reality as a viable option, she made no attempt to even shift over. That is, until Bataar glanced over his shoulder at her pointedly, gruffly telling her to get prepared.

She was a slave-rider. It was her duty to take arms against the invaders and it would be her life on the front edge of the defense. There was a structure to invasion and raiding, just as there was one for defending. These were not disorganized hordes and for every person from the Free Cities or Westeros that did not realise that a _khalasar_ did not become so fearsome by brute, chaotic strength alone, another village would fall to the Dothraki.

Bataar was a strong man. He was a quiet, brave _ko_ and he whilst he was not particularly tender as a lover, he was not rough either. _A good man, a desirable husband_ , Mishi would say. He was one of the few riders that Doreah readily agreed to lie with, and not solely because he had come to her aid more than once to speak on her behalf. Khal Jhaqo’s bedslave did have a certain air of importance, but Bataar had been more imperative in convincing the _khal_ to allow her to ride alongside him in raids and the column. She repaid him for this small slice of freedom with the only currency she possessed.

 

There had only ever been one raid on their _khalasar_ in the years she spent with them. It was long before Dany arrived. Khal Motho had come upon the tents under the cover of night, his small _khalasar_ clearly intent on stealing slaves and not fighting. He did not have the numbers to take on centuries of Jhaqo’s riders. He was a craven _khal_ comparatively speaking and his very small _khalasar_ needed slaves more than soldiers if it was ever to survive. Doreah had been sitting in the grasses outside the _khalasar_ , dagger in hand to use on feral dogs when she had seen the flicker of a small torch extinguish itself somewhere amongst the impending nightfall. Without warning, something had tackled her from the side and she tumbled into the dirt, whipping her hands out as she fell, wildly and haphazardly slashing at whatever it was.

_Draw blood first_. It was known. _Bleed first and you are lost to the Night Lands_. At least, that was how it had been against the animals of the grasslands thus far. Tolui was adamant in this, even in human conflict, and considering the rest of the _khalasar_ had found Doreah’s nightly habits unnerving and peculiar—if not downright stupid—they had not been particularly forthcoming with any other sage advice.

Blood running warm and drying sticky covered her hands and for a moment she could not tell whose it had been. The dull tickle of a sharp _arakh_ wound seemed to spider out from her own shoulder but the majority of blood was not hers she found with great relief. Her dagger, as small as it was, had slid between pieces of leather and found purchase in the soft tissue of a man’s abdomen; his well-toned, thick muscles no match for unyielding steel. His guts gurgled out like slow-boiled stew, a languid drip of bloody viscera and lumps of yellow fat pooling in the dirt around them. The wild dogs would come to this for certain in a matter of moments.

The smell of blood had been so strong. It mixed with sweat, horsehide leather, and death. _It was Qarth over again_. She hadn’t been able to withhold the vomit that spewed forth with the memory of the scent. Scrambling to her feet and squishing loose intestines under her slippered feet, she turned and ran towards safety.

After spending many, many nights alone in the _hranna_ meadows, she knew the way back to the _khalasar_ by feel. The guiding lights of a few remaining fires showed the way in the distance but her body knew the stones and ditches that lay in the blackness between. She leapt over them so quickly that for a moment she had believed herself to be flying. _Like a dragon_ , she had thought at the time. _Killing indiscriminately and flying away._

She had run to Bataar and Varo first, covered in blood and her hands shaking as she recounted what she had seen, stumbling over suddenly unfamiliar Dothraki words in her panic. Varo shoved a pilfered Qorokik sword in her hand and sent her to the slaves. _To protect them_ , he had said. Her. With her trembling limbs, weak stomach and no skill with the heavy and awkward blade, she had stood frozen in place as the horsemen rushed about.

The _ko_ roused the rest of the riders and Khal Jhaqo came storming out of his tent, boiling with rage almost immediately and thirsty for more of the same blood that coated Doreah’s hands. He glanced over her form, taking note of the bloody dagger, smiled, and grabbed her wrists. She did not let the weapons fall, but they hung limply all the same. He smiled again. At least she had thought it was a smile. Letting her wrists go, he used the blood to wipe across his chest in defiance of the invaders but Doreah wanted to believe it was partly because he was proud of her. It had not been wasteful to spare her life and it had not been wrong to allow her to carry iron. A slaved mistress she may be, but she had also become a killer in Dothraki terms, not just as the starved and crazed prison escapee she had been in Qarth.

As the _khal_ had mounted his horse, Bataar had come to her, again imploring her to return to the slaves and stand watch. His brown eyes had glistened in the glow of torches being lit and it helped to steel her nerves so she fled back to Tolui and the rest.

She had a purpose once; that night in Jhaqo’s _khalasar_ , after too many months of being purposeless and lost, she had received another. Many Dothraki still did not like her evening habits, but they murmured quieter since that night. The scar she wore brazenly across her collarbone was a testament to her place in the _khalasar_ as the closet to a warrior a bedslave could hope to become.

 

Now, as the cries and shouting overwhelmed her, she could not bring herself to feel the same.

“You know your place,” Bataar growled to her in Dothraki. “Go.”

Crawling resentfully from his furs, she pulled on her own clothes and realised how little she wanted to put her life up for the taking of some mounted stranger. It was finally hers again. After all, beneath the scars and sour scowls, she was still a cowardly, scared 9-year-old girl crying for the comfort of home.

By the time she had made her way to the source of the commotion, it was clear that there was no raid. Instead a very large crowd of slaves, riders, and free people were gathered in a crushing circle. The shouting did not cease and Doreah squeezed curiously through the throng to the centre. She could have sworn she’d heard Daenerys’ mild Westerosi accent sneaking through the Dothraki shouts.

_Please don’t have it be Daenerys at the cause of this, please_. Standing between a strange, ill-meaning Dothraki scout and Jhaqo’s _khalasar_ was one thing. Standing between Daenerys and the _khalasar_ she had come to love as her own was another entirely. Either way she chose, she would be turning her back on half of her life.

Pushing up alongside Kushi and Marui, her fears became true. Daenerys was there in the centre, her skin flushed with anger, defiantly stood between Qaharah and Tolui, Bileg, Mishi and Laha. Everyone was yelling. The girls were throwing curses towards Qaharah who she could see was blistering from something. The spilled rabbitstew on the ground was enough of a hint. She knew it was only a matter of time before Yollo and Lako came rushing in to their fellow _ko_ ’s defence. Even Bataar. Cringing, Doreah wanted to turn away and pretend she never saw any of this. As she shrank back to dissolve into the masses, Daenerys spotted her and she suddenly found her legs unable to move under the strength of the stare. Guilt washed over her immediately but Dany held her ground and was neither reproachful nor pleading. It was so much like the _khaleesi_ Doreah had known all those years ago. A lump formed unbidden in her throat and she swallowed hard, choking silently.

This was not Drogo’s _khalasar_. Daenerys was no more than a slaved prisoner. Even as a _khaleesi_ , Drogo would have had to discipline her in some way had she assaulted one of his _ko_ in the way as she had done here. There were mutterings all around her of the Unburnt one, and Drogo’s widow, and the _dosh khaleen_. Thus far, Khal Jhaqo had managed to keep it as nothing more than snickers and rumours. He would lose face now if he resisted punishing her severely.

Kushi was tittering nervously beside her about the twitch in Qaharah’s hand, his whipping hand. Doreah knew that hand, that arm, and the strength it possessed. Most of the _khalasar_ knew. Now, his fingers itched at his side, debating whether or not to unleash his whip on Khal Drogo’s widow. Tolui and Mishi’s mother was imploring Qaharah that his quarrel was not with her daughters. Glancing around at the crowd, Doreah saw Erdene staring impassively at the scene despite having her own twin sister in the fray and likely to be beaten for this resistance.

Dany was raging. Since being found half-dead and almost wild by Jhaqo, Doreah had not seen so much fire in the queen. This woman before them was yet another stranger to everyone that had slowly started to accept the other sullen Daenerys into their fold. No one had anticipated such a fiery heart, or such irreverent defiance of the bloodriders.

To Doreah however, it was familiar in a way that felt like a fist in her gut. She found herself breathless once again yet shamed at the same time for her participation. She had witnessed time and time again that fury directed at others, and only once at herself. Both ways, Daenerys was a formidable foe owing mostly to her complete disregard of reason in the face of anger. What was once inspiring now caused Doreah to tremble as she felt it directed towards her, even when it was not. Nothing would ever be able to wipe such fear from her memory. She would never be free of Qarth, nor that vault, nor the _khaleesi_ ’s bitter vengeance. As she stood amongst the Dothraki, Doreah cowered behind Marui, desperate to get away. Each time she thought escape was possible, Daenerys would seek out her face in the crowd.

She supposed it was meant to be some sort of message but the meaning was lost. Instead all Doreah heard was the clamour of irate Dothraki riders and excited slaves, and Daenerys’ voice above it all.

_She’s going to get herself killed_ , Doreah thought with disdain. As much as she disliked the feeling, there was a prickly fear growing in her chest as well for Daenerys. Idly touching the fabric cuff around her bicep, she wondered what a stronger, braver person would do. She had chosen wrong once before and for all intents and purposes, it had cost her her life. However, slow lingering starvation in a vault and a life of running and thieving was not as sure a death sentence as a single practised slice of an _arakh_. If she chose wrong this time, even the gods themselves would be unable to intervene. _To stand with those who granted me my life back, or the one that attempted to take it from me?_

It did not make her feel proud but she made a decision and attempted to push away the fear and tickle of guilt she felt creeping up her throat. Daenerys was Queen of Meereen and intent on taking the Iron Throne of Westeros. She should have no difficulty handling this conflict herself. However, there was no pushing back through the crowd, and Kushi’s arm intertwined with hers was tight as chains. Instead, Doreah dipped her head and stared at the dry earth around her bare and soiled feet, trying to block out all the sounds bombarding her ears.

If she had been anyone else in the crush of people, she would have seen Dany’s expression change momentarily at the avoidance of Doreah’s eyes. But her gaze was fixed upon the dirt and she never saw the fear, never saw the pain her slight provoked.

 

A young girl screamed. It could have been Tolui and Doreah winced to herself, squeezing her eyes closed and inadvertently curling up to Kushi. Still, she refused to watch. There was the sound of a hard fist against flesh and bone and the rustling of a body falling to the ground. She could not look now. If she did, she knew that her only option would be to leap forward. Tolui, Mishi, and Bileg, even mouthy Laha, were her family as much any she had ever known. As much as Daenerys, Irri and Rakharo had been. Tolui was boldly shouting again, pleading with Qaharah to wait, to still his hand until the _khal_ came to sort it out.

_Where is Khal Jhaqo?_ Doreah supposed he did not care about the quarrels of slaves. And rightly so. But this slave was Daenerys Targaryen, blood of the dragon, the Shameful Khaleesi and he had a responsibility to either slay her or make clear his intentions. There was the shaking of the soil as a horse rode into the throng. She recognized Bataar’s voice booming over the crying and chatter.

It was now known. Khal Jhaqo was not going to come to sort out such foolish issues as this. Qaharah was to do as he saw fit to punish the prisoner and the slaves. That was his right as bloodrider. The order sounded authoritative enough and Doreah suspected it had indeed come from the _khal_. It was followed up with a call that if Dany was to run, _kill her_.

The shudder Doreah felt at those words echoed down her limbs and in Kushi as well who tightened her grip on Doreah’s arm. The older Qohorik girl, captured as a slave near 8 years past when she was spending a season in the forest far away from the safety of the Unsullied guardsmen, was a gentle soul although she, much like Laha, had an unwavering desire for womentalk. Even after so long with the Dothraki—people who know claimed her as their own—some of their customs still dug deeply into her peaceful forest heart. With her free hand, she pulled on the musty, ragged great elk fur she wore around her shoulders and stroked it softly. She always did that when something terrible was in the midst of happening.

Doreah refused to raise her eyes. Soon after she heard Varo shouting at his brother to release the slaves; they were no longer important. It was the pale one that was his cause to anger. Reluctantly, the incensed bloodrider gave a dismissive wave and Tolui and her family scattered away back to their tent as Subi, Selwees, and Gali fussed over them, glad their girls were unharmed.

Only a few people turned away from the excitement. Many remained to see what would happen to Daenerys. With Tolui out of danger, Doreah took a deep breath and raised her face.

The blonde was still defiant. The side of her face was seeping blood and bruising a deep purple colour where he had struck her but still she was on her feet again. Her eyes were narrowed, blazing and the challenge present was enough to remind Doreah of many times past. Qaharah had no sense what he was truly facing.

When he raised his whip, there was near silence as every watcher was holding their breath. She prayed to look away but she could do no better than the rest of the gawkers and her blue eyes met Daenery’s gaze head-on. Unwavering, the dragon queen held it. In the periphery, Doreah could hear Kushi chirping about Dany’s stare and who she was indeed looking at.

The crack seemed to echo across the grasslands as it made contact with Daenerys. A collective gasp erupted forth from all sides but no one dared to come forward to help the _messhihven_. Yet Doreah still could not break the stare that she shared with her old _khaleesi_. Even when the impact forced Dany’s knees to buckle and her body to stumble forward, as she stood again, those blue eyes pierced. It was impossible to be free.

Again came the sharp snap of Qaharah’s justice.

Again Dany fell to her knees and stood back up, her expression unchanged and darkly determined. She refused to turn her back to her judge, only enraging him further.

Four times Doreah saw the lashing of leather against Daenerys’ shoulders and every time she watched the phoenix rise again, just as she had long ago. Qaharah had missed her face all four times, but her white arms were caked with blood instead.

Just as he raised his whip for a fifth time, there was a call to halt. Gan stepped forward and for a moment, all the spectators believed this old handmaid to be the one making the protest. It had been her melodious voice, after all. But the crowd milled about, shifting apart as Khaleesi Ahri stepped up to Qaharah. Murmurings from all over the _khalasar_ began at first quietly but soon everyone was talking amongst themselves, so loudly in fact that Doreah could not hear what was being said between the _khaleesi_ and Qaharah. She had been so engrossed in the interaction between the two Dothraki that Doreah almost missed the way Dany wavered on her feet. She was going to collapse soon and her wounds needed attention. He had not attempted any sort of mercy.

Qaharah stalked off still fuming and called for some healers to assist with his burns. Killa stepped forward hesitantly but her position required her to help him. As the _khaleesi_ and her slavemaid moved away, Doreah noted that neither said a word to Daenerys and Ahri did not even glance in her direction. Yet as the crowd parted to allow their _khaleesi_ through, Gan looked over to Doreah and offered a meek smile, one that seemed to speak of a shared understanding, before ducking her head again and following behind her mistress.

It was puzzling and caused the Lysene girl to pause even as the spectators broke apart and wandered back to their _okre_ s and cooking pots.

_What is it that I share with Gan?_ Doreah pondered the question even as Kushi started yapping about the _khaleesi_ and how wonderful she was. Marui joined in and many of the women where chatting amongst themselves about the surprising turn of events. Soon the field was buzzing with speculation and gossip.

No one approached Daenerys.

It wasn’t until the Targaryen staggered slightly on her feet and collapsed to her knees that Doreah pushed through the crowd of women. Sooner than she would have expected and much more concerned, she knelt beside Daenerys. Her mind had been commanding her not to help, or else it would make her a target as well. Not to mention this should be a desired outcome since she had so fervently wished for some harm to befall the queen since she had proclaimed that death sentence so many years ago.

Only when her arms reached out and carefully lifted the whipped prisoner to her feet did Doreah realise what Gan had seen in her, and what Gan felt as well.

_Love for her khaleesi._

Gan knew what she too would feel in a similar situation. She knew the past and immediately Doreah was struck with the memory of her kindly face hovering over a skinned deer, much younger, as she, Irri, and Daenerys had meandered by, all those years ago in Drogo’s _khalasar_.

It may be that handmaid who Dany had to thank more than anyone else. The pale blonde whimpered quietly, desperately trying to maintain a strong exterior even though few people were watching any longer. She could not be humiliated as well as injured.

Pushing the idea of any sort of compassion or affection for her _khaleesi_ from her troubled mind, Doreah left Dany at the opening of the barren woman Haga’s tent.

Then she vigorously scrubbed the blood of the dragon from her hands.

 

 

It took three days for Doreah to gather her courage and ask after Haga. The old woman was in her tent, as she always was during the heat of the day. Entering hesitantly, Doreah offered a kindly greeting and knelt down beside her. Haga said nothing at first, only continued to mash poppy seeds into a paste inside a well-worn mortar and pestle. She was a bulky, gentle if somewhat unsightly woman and Doreah always felt relaxed just being in her presence. She appeared to be the only person over the age of sixteen that truly enjoyed the tales Doreah wove of all the strange places and people she had seen and in return for these stories, Haga offered various herbs and recipes to the Lyseni, mostly for keeping the night madness at bay but also for healing blisters and sores from long days on horseback. Once, when the cooking fire had accidentally seared her hands, Haga recited an ancient Dothraki prayer for fireburns and offered up a lather of berries, succulents, and leaves and something else that had worked to magnificently heal what normally would have been permanent scars.

Unfortunately, such lotion did not work for scars of steel. Nor did it soothe the wounds in the soul.

Silently, Doreah passed the barren woman a small packet of red leaves that were out of her reach. Haga smiled kindly and turned back to her work. Even the relaxing rhythm of grinding seeds did not ease Doreah’s nerves this time. She was aware that Daenerys was sleeping just over her shoulder in a warm corner of Haga’s abode. She resisted the urge to glance over.

“You are troubled,” Haga said suddenly, her eloquent Dothraki speech a sharp juxtaposition to her rough looks.

Doreah chuckled and shook her head. “When am I not?”

Haga did not see the humour in such a statement. Not one to jest about dangerous or hurtful emotions, she ground harder and the stone scratched loudly against the mortar. “The fire cannot harm you today, child. Not in here.”

The Lysene girl was far from a child now, but she had never corrected Haga. Many would have taken the word as offense, but it felt like endearment, something likened to understanding. At first, when she had been referred to as such, she had thought Haga was blind. Or mad. Later she found the old woman was not in fact blind nor mad, just perceptive, moreso than most. There was a gift given to some barren women that allowed them to see souls. Doreah found some comfort in being called “child” in just such a tone. No one in her life had ever done so, and certainly none with the concern that Haga bestowed.

Smiling with the reassurance, she shifted closer to the elder but said nothing.

“You must not be afraid.” She eased her pressure on the mixture. “Fire is death and fire is life. End and beginning. It is both at once.” The small fire Haga had burning at her feet was barely larger than a few candles combined, but the incense she had smoking above it was luscious and calming. “We start as fire in our parents, when we die we return to it. The fires in the sky, burning forever with the souls of men and beasts.” She paused and glanced over at the brunette who was merely staring at the flames. “There is no shadow without light, and no light without shadow. Do you know of the prickly tree at the edge of The Great Grass Sea?”

Doreah shook her head. She had seen and heard of all sorts of trees of course. There were many sorts in the Dothraki Sea, and many others in the gardens of the Free Cities. Kushi was particularly fond of speaking of the many types of trees she had known. But Doreah had never had an interest in retaining such information and the prickly tree was not familiar. Haga sighed.

“Well, you will learn today, child. There is a tree beyond our boundaries, close to the city of Qohor. There are a great many of these trees in the West too, across the Narrow Sea. They are green forever and said never to lose their leaves. But these leaves are long and sharp like the spines of prickly pear. The trees smell sweet and leave a stickiness behind when they come to harm.”

A lesson in tree typology was not particularly interesting to Doreah but she tried to listen politely all the same. It was at least a distraction from Daenerys’ deep breaths behind her.

“You have seen the seeds of the kapok, poplar, and our great saxaul, yes? They are small and delicate. The prickly tree seeds are large and strong. Many animals cannot eat such seeds and it is said that without fire, these trees will die. You see, child, the fire may destroy the tree but opens the seed. Only a fool sees only the end. It is always a beginning.”

For a very long time, Haga lapsed into silence, intent on finishing her paste. Doreah did nothing but watch patiently. She had learnt that it was impossible to rush Haga. Finally the old woman turned her face back to her visitor.

“You must let yourself be burnt.”

Doreah winced. “I have felt the heat, Haga. It has done me no favours.”

Haga dropped the pestle in the dish with a loud clang. “Only a fool sees only the end,” she repeated direly. “Are you still small whore _Doreah_ _of the Free City Lys_? This warrior woman I see here is not the same as who was burnt before.” She pointed to the scars adorning smooth sun-bronzed skin, poking hard at the deep one along Doreah’s collarbone. “I see strong reborn Dothraki woman here.”

“A tree can only die once. A seed can only open once.” She said the words and could not resist a quick glance at the sleeping form of the dragon queen.

“You stupid child,” Haga grumbled. “Borro is right. _Doreah Tokik_.”

The blue-eyed slave bristled at the name. It always reminded her of Viserys and his snide slurs. _You pretty little idiot_ , he had said in that inherent mocking and condescending way of his, as if that had been all she was and ever would be. _Pretty little idiot_ , the true story of her life as it was. Normally she ignored Tolui’s uncle’s taunts but coming from Haga, it wounded much deeper, her pride more than anything.

“The Great Stallion, the Mother of Mountains, the great spirits and all their children, the _vojjor_ even, they make circles in the world for us so that even when we are lost we are found, even when it is over it is beginning. Are you truly a prickly tree, Doreah Tokik?”

Doreah shook her head.

“Then you do not have only one end, one beginning. We are always burnt, always born.”

 With a groan, Haga waved her hand dismissively at the younger woman seeming tired of the conversation with one who was not listening. “Go now. Take your friend—”

 “She is _not_ my friend, Haga,” Doreah protested immediately, still on edge from the past week’s events, and Haga’s supposed words of wisdom.

Brown eyes narrowed and eventually she sighed. The elder reached over and poked Daenerys with a smoothed branch of poplar to rouse her. It did not seem to work. The blonde mumbled something and rolled away.

“Very well, Doreah _Tokik_ ,” The old woman’s voice held a tone of warning against the Lysene girl’s petulant attitude. “Take your lover”—quickly she held up her hand as Doreah attempted to object once again—“back to rest in Subi’s _okre_.”

 

Dragging a half-asleep and dreamy dragon princess across the hot and busy _khalasar_ was not on any list of Doreah’s deepest desires. It was quite the opposite. Not only was Daenerys a particularly heavy weight to carry, there were too many people staring as they stumbled past, whispers and chatter beginning before they were even clear of earshot. With resentment, Doreah frowned deeply, irritated that she was given this task. When had taking care of Daenerys fallen solely on her shoulders? She had thought her feigned, if not true, indifference was cover enough to avoid such responsibility yet everyone appeared to see right through it when it came to the queen.

She spotted Tolui over a few heads, brushing one of the old horses and murmuring with Klas. The young Dothraki’s smile fell when she saw Doreah and Daenerys pushing through the bustling slaves and she waved a reluctant farewell to Klas as she come upon them.

“Tolui, help me,” the older girl implored with irate fatigue. Daenerys was muttering nonsense still, her half fallen eyelids unhelpful in preventing more stumbles. Tolui jogged up and slid an arm under Dany’s other shoulder, propping her up better than Doreah alone.

“Where are we going?”

“Your mother’s _okre_.”

“Oh.” Tolui seemed disappointed by the news when before she had always been curious and oftentimes eager to share with the peculiar stranger.

As if to reassure her, Doreah continued. “Haga said so.”

“Haga,” Tolui repeated quietly, turning the name over in her mouth.

They dragged the blonde slave in silence across the grass and dirt, ignoring the distrustful stares and words surrounding them.

_They should be thankful_ , Doreah thought bitterly. Daenerys placed herself between braided leather and Bileg and saved the girls from both rape and flogging. Her own defensive thoughts surprised even her, and as a result she distanced herself slightly from the Targaryen girl.

Tolui, normally bursting with questions, remained quite silent. It disturbed Doreah. She ignored Daenerys’ half-witted babbling but kept glancing over at the Dothraki slavegirl. When they reached Subi’s tent, Tolui still said nothing and they both chose not to entertain Yeo’s incessant questions as they opened the flap to the dim interior and left him unanswered outside as his older sister, still burdened with a sack of flesh in the shape of a girl, hissed a warning at him to shut up.

The noise from the outdoors faded slightly within the hot confines of the _okre_ but it still felt heavy with humidity and unspoken words. Tolui slipped free of her responsibility and let Doreah ease Dany to the bedroll by the entrance, yet she remained to watch as if she yearned to say something but could not find the courage. It was Daenerys that did so.

“ _My_ Doreah,” her voice was little above a hoarse whisper now although the Lysene girl was not sure if the words originated from any reasonable place within the poppy-addled mind. Before Doreah could straighten up, Dany, with surprising strength for someone who had just had her shoulders torn to pieces by a whip, grabbed ahold of the rope that held her Dothraki garb in place around her neck. She was forced to look down on the exiled _khaleesi_ who appeared to be suddenly fully aware. “How could I have forgotten those eyes?”

The voice was so wistful that the slave knew Dany was still under the influence of Haga’s brew, regardless of how alert she may outwardly appear. “In Braavos… I was only a child… A red door. There was a lagoon. So blue. Your eyes, Doreah.” A shiver passed under Doreah’s skin as Dany released her. Yet she did not move; she remained hovering above her as she had so many times in the past. Echoing back to such times, thin pale fingers slipped over her shoulders and up to softly cradle her face in those warm hands. It took all the resistance she could muster in order to keep her eyelids from closing. It was the fear shining through that provided the fuel.

_That touch_. It was the very undoing of her soul. A blessing and a curse in one simple action, one half of a moment. That night on the Red Waste, that touch had unravelled so much and left nothing but suffering and emptiness in its wake since.

“I have missed your eyes,” Dany breathed out longingly, the wisps of breeze feeling like the phantom caress of a love long lost to time. Fingers slipped down, brushing lightly against her cheeks, and two thumbs stroked over the soft swell of her lips. “And your lips.”

For a moment, they were frozen except for the slow graze of a thumb. Then Doreah’s senses recognised the imminent danger. This was suffocation; this was the vault. She could not be burned again. Leaping away quite suddenly, she stumbled backwards and away from those hands, those words, _that touch_. She found her chest tight and the blood swept rapidly through her ears, rushing and thumping until all other sounds were drowned out. Her fearful gaze came to rest on Tolui’s shocked, wide-eyed stare and the heat rose to her cheeks, along with damp palms and a terrible light-headedness. Without a word to either girl, she scrambled out of the tent, flushing a hot pink in her chest and her heart hitting her breast far quicker than it had in many months. In was like the night madness but thriving and attacking her in the blazing heat of day.

 She ran, again.

 

 

Dark clouds were gathering in the distance, greyness building into a formidable looking storm. It was so dark along the horizon that Doreah could make out the flash of lightning in the clouds far away. She could have sworn she had seen a dark shape spinning and twisting amongst the growing thunderheads, a shape much like a dragon. It disappeared between clouds before she could be certain.

_Was Drogon still out there? Why has he not come back for his mother?_ Doreah had no idea what had happened in the years she had not been with them, but she felt a disconnect somewhere between Daenerys and her dragons _. Where were Viserion and Rhaegal?_ The _khaleesi_ she had known was incredibly close with her fiery children; they were pieces of each other joined by blood and spirit.

Behind her came the sound of careless footsteps rushing towards her. It was not Daenerys, or anyone that was coming to her with any expectation of calmness. She turned to see Tolui almost breathless and running up to join her. Her deep brown eyes were concerned and puzzled at once.

“What is happening?”

Doreah shrugged. In truth, she had no better an idea than anyone else. Tolui was waiting anxiously, her worry clearly creeping over her normally bright face. A strong, cold gust swept across the grass, tousling their hair and provoking a shudder of gooseflesh to ripple along her skin. Such winds were becoming more and more common. Every night, bonfires raged larger and more numerous than they had previously in retaliation against the chill. It was obvious that even landlocked here in the heart of Essos, winter was coming.

“I feel sad,” Tolui continued. “It is my fault that Dani suffered the whip of Qaharah.”

Confused, Doreah arched an eyebrow. From what she had seen, Dany had chosen to make a stand, in the very way she knew best. “How?”

“I told her she was not brave. Then she saw Qaharah with Bileg. No one has ever…” Tolui’s voice wavered, thick with guilt.

The older girl smiled sadly and looked over at the innocent Dothraki. Dropping her eyes then, Doreah sighed. “It was not you, Lu. Daenerys has always done such things. This is not the first time. She is a grown woman and knows what she is choosing.” There was a pause. “It is _not_ your fault.”

A quiet lull crept over the girls and the sun seemed to beat down harder. Tolui shuffled uncomfortably. “She _is_ Drogo’s _khaleesi_.” It was not a question but it did not sound particularly cheerful either. Normally when there was something new and different, the young slave embraced it with a natural curiousity often unseen in many girls of her age, Dothraki or not. “The one you said was dead.” There was another sad sigh, her words laced with the sting of betrayal. “You did not tell the truth to me.”

The wince that slipped across Doreah’s face was unmistakable and in the clear light of afternoon, Tolui was able to see it as well. “That _khaleesi_ remains dead to me.” She attempted to keep her voice hard but she faltered, as had Tolui.

“In the tent—Dani, what she said—You and her…” Doreah realised this was still the inquisitive Dothraki girl, just a different sort. A jaded, hurt sort. A girl that no longer recognised the lying friend who stood before her, the trusted sisterfriend that had withheld knowledge of such importance, the family that had let her fall alone. That was all too familiar a memory. “She—is she the one that left you with your marks?”

That question had not been expected and Doreah’s eyes widened sharply yet Tolui remained strangely impassive. She stroked a hand over the ugly pink scars lacing her abdomen. “Not directly, no.” Many people had asked about her past, about the origin of her scars and she had avoided it each time, from lovers to friends. She still did not want to relieve those moments and those years no matter who was asking.

“You hate her? You are always angry like she is some Lamb slave but I see you are scared. I have seen that before.”

Doreah chuckled ruefully, trying not to believe that a naïve girl of only sixteen namedays was more perceptive than an entire _khalasar_ together. Her gaze fell to her feet, in part ashamed of her transparency—she had worked so hard to conceal herself—and in part upset about the truth of the child’s words. Eventually, she nodded. She did hate Daenerys. She had hated her from the moment that the person opening the vault had been a strange Assha’i woman cloaked in a mask of golden scales and not a familiar blonde Targaryen. It had only grown with time, and it doubled when she had run with Beth: another girl who had replaced her blood with vengeance.

“She is the dragon and her fire burned me alive,” the older slave admitted. Only Haga really knew this, or more precisely, only Haga had inferred such information. It was odd to say it aloud, almost as if she was offering up her most treacherous vulnerability for all the world to take advantage of. The trembling that resulted was more terrible than the biting cold wind ever would inspire.

It was a surprise when Tolui shrugged nonchalantly in the face of such a claim. Empathy had always been one of her defining traits. “But you did not stay dead.” For the first time in days, the younger girl actually forged a tiny smile. “If she had not done so, you would not be here with us. It is known that I am not the only one blessed from your coming. Yours was an omen besides.”

One day, far in the future, hopefully centuries upon centuries of moons away, it was certain that Tolui would be a wonderful barren woman, well-respected and well-loved. Her interests were not tied to titles and gold and her wisdom already surpassed that of the other girls her age. If only she could withhold some of her more vexing curiousity and recognise the need for discretion.

However, it was hard for Doreah to accept that her own presence was anymore an omen than the appearance of any other slave. “You see a false face, Lu. I’m merely a coward in horse’s armour.”

“Doreah Tokik, you fool no one here, least of all the ones that know you best.” What had originally been a slur against her fell out of Tolui’s mouth as a term of gentle endearment instead. “Being frightened and being a coward are not the same. It is what you choose to do with the fear.”

_How little I truly do know_ , Doreah thought wryly, feeling more aware than ever. There were many things she could no longer tell apart. Cowardice and fear. Bravery and hubris. Safety and avoidance. Freedom and possession. Loyalty and timidity. Love and hate. Even night and day were becoming more and more blurred since the arrival of Daenerys. Terrors and ghosts no longer sought refuge away from the sun at the break of dawn; even in bright light they wafted over the dragon and wove unbreakable ropes that shackled Doreah to the young queen.

“I don’t know what to choose any longer,” Doreah admitted, feeling ill just with making such a confession. “I don’t know if I can.”

Tolui’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Killa says there is always a choice. Always.”

_Always a choice. Always a beginning_. There were simply too many potentials, too many possibilities. _Always some vague and irrelevant sage advice, more like_ , Doreah snorted. She had to resist rolling her eyes at the statement. Tolui held Killa’s words in high regard. Most of the _khalasar_ did as well.

“It is easy. Choose what is best,” Tolui continued. Doreah looked to her expecting to see a smarmy look upon her face, as if she found the words as silly as the Lyseni did, yet when she met the brown gaze, it was serious. Her own sarcastic smile died before it even was born. “Daenerys has chosen you.”

That amounted to a slap across the cheek, although no hands were actually raised. Tolui had no idea of the past and did not seem to realise that Dany had chosen Doreah this time not out of honest desire, but out of desperation and loneliness. Many years ago, Daenerys’ choice had been quite the opposite. She had wanted her dead.

“You will never understand, Lu. Never.” Doreah could feel her lungs growing tight, her blood warming. Perhaps even beads of sweat were breaking across her brow. “Daenerys… She gave me all I desired and all I thought I would never have. Freedom, everything. She was—I loved her. _Loved_ her. The way you feel for Varo, the way your mother cared for your father, the way the grass needs the rain.” The tears were brimming now with her release, but still they did not escape. She had never said the words before except inside her own head. It did not feel like relief for her lips to make them real; it tore at her soul. “And she condemned me _to death_ in return.” Her voice became dark and angry as she said the words, so dismal were her thoughts that the words felt like poison lashing on her tongue. But it all stung so strongly that it was her only option.

She was no better than a scorpion. “Do not _ever_ tell me that was a _choice_ of mine, that it was for the best. If it had been I falling upon her and her armies instead, you would have seen no love from her to me. It is merely her fear that seeks me out now, not her heart. You’re a stupid child if you cannot see that. I swear by your gods, R’hllor, and the rest that it is merely Khal Jhaqo’s command that stills my blade in her presence. I would gladly repay her the _kindness_ she has shown me if I could. Love is for the summer and winter is upon us.”

“Liar!” Tolui spat the words so venomously that Doreah retreated slightly. The slave girl's sheer abhorrence for lies under any circumstance was always a source of conflict. “You liar! You’re lying—You know nothing of love. You lie to me and know nothing of honour either!” She took a deep breath but still remained on the verge of a cry. “Laha was right long ago. You will bring nothing but shame to us.”

There had only been one other instance that resulted in animosity between she and Tolui, and likewise, that had been over the subject of Daenerys. _Even when she is not near, even when she does not try, she destroys everything of mine._ She longed to say anything to rectify the growing divide, but few words seemed to sprout in her mind and even fewer even had the chance to make it to her lips. In the end, she ended up making no sound at all.

As no reply came, Tolui scowled deeply, betrayal clearly written in every smooth line. She shook her head in appalled disappointment and turned away, her legs quickly taking her over the flat grass and back to the _khalasar_. Exhausted and defeated, Doreah fell heavily to the dirt, plucked a few blades of grass idly as she sat and stared at the approaching storm. Slowly, it swallowed the sun. The _hranna_ around her shivered crisply and she closed her eyes.

 


	11. Daenerys V

The earth-shattering crash of thunder was what woke her finally. She was Stormborn in her blood, and each time it blustered just so, she felt rejuvenated when most people were trembling and seeking the deep comfort of shelter. The snaps of lightning were the sky’s fire reaching down for her, the thunder was the beat of a drum from an innumerable army leading her home to her rightful place. For almost a week she had spent the days and nights in a haze of discomfort and confusion and now, as the storm bore down hard on the flatlands of the Dothraki Sea, she felt awake at last.

Her shoulders had healed well. Whatever that barren woman had given her was magic in itself. That was certain. She had been lucky each step of the way, including her interference in Qaharah’s attempt to shatter Bileg the way Drogo had done to her more than once, and the way she had witnessed Jhaqo do to Doreah. The vision still made her skin crawl late at night and her old friend continued to act as though it had not affected her deeply. Daenerys knew better. She knew the physical ache, the shame, the repression, and the way the sickness crept up when it was least expected to haunt and cloud even the brightest moment. Suddenly the most banal instances could twist just an innocent word, a look, or even a breeze into a shudder that would bring the memory straight to the surface in all its terrible intensity. And very little other than time could push those feelings aside, temporarily. 

Another flash of lightning outside illuminated the dark tent for a brief moment. All around her, the women were sleeping with arms over their heads, covering their ears and faces with rough pillows and pelts to block out the sounds. Everyone she recognised was inside. Except for one. Her mind reeled with visions but she could not determine what had been the medicine’s doing and what had been real. Looking around, she knew Drogo and Daario had been mere figments and as lightning momentarily lit the _okre_ , her heart twinged with longing for not only the comfort of a warm body beside her but also the gentle, intimate touch of a lover. She wondered where Daario was. _Could he be looking for me as I lie here? Will he ever find me?_

She often wanted to believe in him but there was always a part of her head that nagged with its pessimistic realism about the Tyroshi. So often she had been able to deny it, but longer they were apart, the stronger it grew and the clearer that so-called love became. There was no use even considering Drogo. The only joy he could deliver now was the sight of a burning stallion in the beautiful night sky. 

With the second clap of thunder in so many moments, her thoughts tumbled towards the girls of the _khalasar_ , and Doreah most of all. It was much more difficult to separate illusion from reality. And that ache she had felt at the thought of her past lovers just a moment ago did not dissipate as she had expected it to. Instead, it bubbled outwards until her entire chest felt heavy and tight with want, until her throat went dry and a faint tingle crawled through her abdomen. Her breath hitched. She could recall the Lysene slave’s voice at intervals, her touch, and that bright blue she had met during her fever. It seemed like so many years ago already. But recent delirium had played tricks on her wits, leaving her scratching for any semblance of understanding in a sea of nonsense. Distracted, she noticed her bedroll felt lumpy and uncomfortable, as the rain seeped in just under the edge of the tent. She pressed a finger into the dampening soil and shifted away from the edge. 

The cool air made her shoulder joints ache, but she sat up abruptly and reached for an extra mat. After a quick readjustment of her bedroll, it was dry and would hopefully remain so for the remainder of the night. Lying down again, she sighed deeply and between pattering of raindrops, she could hear some of the women snoring softly, dead to the world. A storm was no excuse for a slave to remain awake unless they desired to trudge through the following day sleep-deprived and useless, thus prone to a beating. But again, her thoughts were quickly drawn away from them and towards the absence of Doreah. Likely she was with one of the riders. Daenerys had heard enough whispers around the fires to figure out where Doreah’s place was and what favours that required. 

Even so, something in her bones begged her to move. She would just check. There was no harm in a brief glance. Once again crawling from under her old pelts, she only had to move a foot in order to peek out the tent opening. 

Rain lashed across her face as soon as the flap was lifted. It was unexpectedly cold and she winced against it, drawing a sharp breath through her clenched teeth. The gust died quickly with a flash of light again and the soft dripping of drops continued. A large boom of thunder escaped the burly clouds above. It was as if the very fabric of the sky itself was being slashed into pieces. She was not sure if she had ever heard it so loud. Right above them, the heavens were falling apart. 

Her limbs itched with the need to walk in the downpour, to twirl amongst the raindrops, to feel water against her thickened and dusty skin. Long moons on the Dothraki Sea with her sun and stars had taught her that a storm in the flatlands was not to be toyed with nor explored. Blood of the fire dragon you may be, Irri had said, but even that may be no match for the angry skyfire _vojjor_. Their burning spears and arrows had spared no one yet. It would be best not to tempt them as they particularly took insult to those daring to stand against them, adorned in trinkets and metals. Dany still remembered the charred body of the young boy lightning had seared as he had run back from the open meadow. 

Resisting as much as she could, Daenerys poked her head out further and spied what at first appeared to be a pile of furs and pelts alongside the tent. It was not. 

“Doreah,” she hissed. Realising that if her tentmates could sleep through thunder, it was unlikely her voice would rouse them, so again, she tried louder. “Doreah!” 

The furry lump shifted and rippled as if a great beast was slowly waking. From underneath, two blue eyes sparkled in the dim light of the sporadic moonlight. As it moved, torrents of water cascaded down the furs leaving something resembling a drowned wolf-horse. Doreah’s own hair was damp and clumped around her face. Her meagre blankets had done little to repel such an insistent rainfall. 

Dany really did try not to laugh yet her lips twitched as she suppressed what she knew would only infuriate her old servant. “Come inside.” Doreah cocked an eyebrow, obviously unconvinced by Dany’s plea and moved to crawl back under her soaking wet cover. “Stop being foolish, Doreah. You will catch your death in this storm.” 

Doreah once again looked unimpressed and merely shrugged lazily. “Let it try. I’ve been through worse.” A pointed stare sent towards Dany was not lost but the silver-haired queen chose to ignore the bait. 

She wasn’t certain why she was so intent on making sure the aggravatingly stubborn Lyseni came out of the rain, yet she knew she would not sleep whilst Doreah was outside. She wished for perhaps the thousandth time that she was in fact the true _khaleesi_. Her commands would have to be heeded. Both Doreah and Irri used to sleep in the small cover outside her and Drogo’s _okre_ as well, and in similar storms so ordered them both to take refuge either on the floor of her tent, with her, or elsewhere in shelter. Dany suspected part of Doreah’s bullheadedness was a trait learnt from Irri. 

“Share my bedroll tonight,” Daenerys prompted again. It echoed so many other times but this invitation was not entirely the same. There would be no exchange of anything but sleeping quarters. She paused and blinked hard, shaking the rain from her face. “I know about the night madness.” 

Blue eyes narrowed. After a long pause, the furs shifted and the bedslave quickly crawled out and slipped into the warmth and humidity of the _okre_. It was almost pitch black within and Dany heard the small gasp at the sudden blindness but as a fork of lightning illuminated their surroundings briefly, she took Doreah’s cold hand and pulled her towards the dry bedroll. 

She could feel the shivering as the other girl began to warm beneath the dry blanket and sucking Dany’s own warmth through her skin. 

Something within her wished to reach out, to brush her fingers through damp brown locks, to pull the body close, to feel the soft sighs of sleep upon her face. Instead she rolled over as her memory flooded her with visions of stolen dragons, dead friends, and sordid betrayals. There would forever be a wall between them. That is what Doreah already knew and Dany was only now beginning to understand. She shuddered herself, feeling the icy fingers of hopelessness and loneliness skitter over her heart. 

The wisp of warm breath across the back of her neck combined with the scents of the Dothraki Sea only provoked angry tears and the soul-aching memory of her beautiful sun and stars. It was much more painful than the soreness of Qaharah’s whipping. Lost happiness. Lost love. Everyone was lost even as she marched on. By not looking back, she had lost contact with them all. 

She fell asleep with dried saltwater on her cheeks and a gaping hole in her chest.

  

 

It was not clear which woke her: the screams or the thrashing. The sounds were not of blood-curdling terror as she had believed Tolui meant of the night madness. No, these were anguish of destruction and a lost soul shattering into pieces. It was a more painful sound than she had ever heard from Doreah… except perhaps once. She winced suddenly as a knee came up and made contact with her thigh. It would bruise on the morrow. Yet she rolled over, reached out and grasped tightly onto the Lyseni’s jaw, attempting to still her movement and wake her. She called her name and dug her fingernails into skin, wrestling with the escape Doreah was seeking. 

Lightning crackled again and it was the snap needed. Doreah’s eyes flew open and latched onto scared pale blue ones. There was a glaze to them as if the girl was not really seeing reality. 

“It’s okay. I’m here, I’m here,” the young queen whispered urgently through clenched teeth. “You’re safe.” 

Dany remembered the nights as a child that she would wake helpless in fear, shoved from dreams by traitorous visions of impending darkness. She had Viserys then to comfort her as best he knew how, and as they grew older and her nightmares lessened, his only increased. It was in one of his fits that he had first hit her as she had been on the cusp of bringing him to. The next morning was full of humiliated, reluctant apologies and dismissive anger. _A dragon does not need pity or concern_ , he had said. _Next time, don’t wake the dragon or you’ll be sorry again_. She was meant to leave him to his night terrors but she couldn’t obey that request, not her big _brother_ , not when he screamed out in such suffering. Yet each time she disobeyed, woke him and attempted comfort, his embarrassment grew, as did his rage. He found a new excuse then, a pathetic justification and an easy target for his frustrations. Waking the dragon had not only happened at night after that. 

But Doreah was not Viserys, not in full anyway. Instead of lashing out with a fist to her face, the Lysene girl reached out blindly and clumsily, yet more desperately than Dany had ever seen, and pulled closer. A sob shook her body but she moved tight despite that. Under her hands, Dany could feel the hardness of every muscle and it made her shudder with recollections of how Viserys would tense right before hitting her. 

It was not Doreah’s fists that came down upon Dany that night. It was her lips, crushing and tasting like salt. For a moment, the dragon’s daughter was frozen in shock and confusion. This was not what she had wanted. She longed for soft kisses and touches of love. Not _this_. Not bruised lips covered with the bitter taste of tears and fingers of clawing desperation. Not fear. And not when Doreah was weeping like a terrified child. 

A clap of thunder smashed across the sky causing the soil beneath them to tremble. The shake managed to bring Doreah around and suddenly she realised what was happening. She jumped back as if burned. Her face was laced with confusion, and perhaps guilt. Sourly, a hand wiped at her mouth and blue eyes that had appeared so fearful and anxious only moments before now shone with bitter accusation. Her lips turned into a sneer as she scrambled defiantly out of the tent and back into the night rain. 

The blonde queen did not realise she had followed until the cold lash of rain hit her in the face once again. Squinting through the downpour, she noted that Doreah’s furs were an empty sopping mess. 

The world was dark and cold; her bones rattled against the wind and her skin pimpled and puckered as the rain seeped into it. Yet when the thunder cracked or lightning blazed through the black, she felt a rush, a surge of desire and determination. Fear lingered around the edges, reminding her of something long ago. Blood and screaming and smoke, but it was indistinct. Every time a drop of rain splattered into her eyes, she would wince and curse Doreah’s reckless stupidity. She did not consider that she too had a choice herself. Like the comet, like the dragon, following Doreah felt inevitable. 

As winter crept slowly into the Great Grass Sea, the nights had become terribly uncomfortable. The Dothraki spoke often about the last Long Darkness now. It was not the same as Westeros with terrible tales of fields upon fields of ice and snow, or massive armies of Cold Ones. But nonetheless, there was sleet and starvation and blistering chill and death. And once Killa spoke of the _lei_ , blue-eyed undead terrors that had not been seen in Essos since the beginning of the age of dragons. Even despite the absence of ice, it was winter enough for people accustomed to only summer. Now, the intermittent rainclouds impaired any moonlight there may have been and natural shelter from the wind was almost impossible to find. As Daenerys stumbled amongst the _okre_ s and near-dead firepits, she squinted desperately through the falling rain. She knew likely where Doreah was headed. 

Before she could get there, a sauxal root tripped her up and she tumbled into the mud. As she scrambled to her feet, a frigid hand gripped tightly around her arm, pulling her up. _Such cold hands_. She was yanked into the lee of a large _okre_ , away from the sting of sleet. Doreah stood in front of her, grasping her arms fiercely as if she was afraid to let go. 

“You should not have followed me,” she growled as Dany jerked her limbs free of Doreah’s harsh hold. 

“That’s not your decision,” Dany shot back, trembling against the chill. She thought only of Doreah’s terrible screams, of her shaking, of her frightfully hard kisses. More than all, Dany thought of warm tears under her fingers and on the tip of her tongue just moments before. Despite everything, her chest ached for Doreah's pain. 

The Lysene girl backed up against horsehide coverings, sheltering herself further. Lightning snapped across the sky again. Dany followed once more, almost pushing up against the body in front of her. 

“This night madness,” Dany began softly as possible above the storm. “What is it you see?” 

There was a dismissive shake of a head in response. Doreah appeared to have no intention on sharing such sensitive thoughts. Continuing on, Daenerys pushed. “I have seen many visions—nightmares—of mine own.” 

Again, Doreah scoffed. “You truly have no understanding of what has happened in your wake. The monsters you have released upon the world.” 

“My dragons—” the blonde began to protest. Was she truly defending dragons to the woman who often days would speak of nothing but? Doreah once loved dragons more fiercely than perhaps even Viserys. 

“No. _You_ are the monster, the mother of them all.” 

Finally Dany understood what Doreah was saying, why Doreah only saw a monster before her now. Her blood felt thicker and hotter with the accusation. Qarth was so many ages ago. “I did not force you into Xaro Xhoan Daxos’ bed, nor to steal my dragons. _Your_ choices, Doreah, not mine. Mine was only a response to your betrayal. I am only the monster you forced of me.” 

“I never—” Doreah started, suddenly desperately defensive where she had previously been aggressive. 

Sensing the weakness, Dany struck. She had waited too long for this, suffered too many of Doreah’s slights and false accusations, borne too much of her rage. “What did he promise you that I could not? Gold? Dragons? Jewels? A stolen crown? To be his little Queen of Qarth?” Daenerys’ face was creased and streaked with anguish as the barrage of blame continued. “You did all this for a vault of riches and a false title?” 

“No! For my _life_.” Doreah exclaimed in exasperation. The dragon queen had not expected such an impassioned response. “That is what he promised me.” After a moment, Doreah face crumpled and Dany had to strain to hear the whisper: “To keep _my life_.” 

There was silence that stretched out between the women, slowly placing brick upon brick into the wall that divided them. 

 


	12. Doreah V

The stinging rain was relentless. It was drowning all the warmth inside her body and Doreah’s skin prickled violently, tremors rippling through her muscles in a vain attempt to ward off the cold. All that surrounded them was water. The common night sounds of the Dothraki Sea were smothered by falling droplets and held down by the unspoken words between the women. Daenerys remained near impassive, and seemed to be considering Doreah’s truth.

“Doreah.” She eventually said but left it at that. Perhaps a warning, perhaps a sound of sympathy. It was impossible to ascertain.

“I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want to die,” the brunette choked out, shaking her head as rain poured down her face, disguising the hot tears that were present. _How does she not understand that I had little choice?_ It seemed a fruitless endeavour to continue insisting on that truth, but it was all she had. She was not proud of it and she often hid from it even when alone. Often times she wondered if it would have been better to have died then.

No doubt Daenerys only saw the comfortable companionship that she appeared to have shared with Xaro in his bed. But why would the merchant king need chains when he had shackles much stronger? She had been fettered with dark threats and frivolous promises around her hands. Fear, desperation and hopelessness looped a noose tightly around her neck. And guilt—it was the immovable weight that she dragged behind her, the manacle clasped around her heart instead of her ankle and it blistered and bled, sore and raw but ever present.

His weapons were words: empty promises cloaked in unabashed flattery, illusions of splendour and grace. But even more powerful were the words he did not say: the snarling threats that lurked under his deliberate silences. They were so quiet that most men missed them altogether, instead distracted by the clamour of false praise. Doreah, being trained in the art of discretion, had heard all too clearly the rasping menace of death under the platitudes. Even after he had openly begun to weave vivid tales of Daenerys’ downfall so gruesome that they made the Lyseni’s stomach churn, there still remained more left unsaid.

 _We know nothing about this Xaro. Men like to talk—when they are happy._ Doreah had understood the implications of that remark too, of what had been left unspoken then and the disguised command beneath the words. Her invisible chains towed weightily with every step and every word of betrayal against the _khaleesi_. However, there was no other way out. Her desire to stay alive and to do whatever was necessary to eventually help protect the woman who gave her freedom meant being owned once more.

No, none of that could have been seen in that bed. To an unaware and wounded observer she appeared as lusciously content as a royal bedslave could be. After all, she was only a treacherous whore. And whores only can do one thing, want for one thing, feel for one thing.

The dragon’s daughter never realised that the one thing the Lysene whore wanted had never been the typical gold or even baby dragons; it had been Daenerys, and all she encompassed.

It was still the same guilt, the heavy, pulling shackles around her heart, that crushed her in the darkness even now. Only it had partnered with shame, terror, anger and ugly memories of starving to death, resulting in what could only be considered a half-life of rape and constant running. It caused her to wake screaming in the middle of the night. It caused her to cling to Daenerys when all she wanted was to flee from her.

There was no way Doreah could see to truly impress upon Daenerys what she had endured. Those nights after the strange Assha'i witch had freed her, she had not slept. Not even for an hour. Despite her body’s protests, she gorged herself on whatever she could pilfer and retched it up again, sour hot liquid spewing out her without respite from both ends. Realising soon that she was unable to take food properly after so long deprived of it, she took only small portions, like a rat snivelling in the corners. Her eyes had been sore with the light yet in the heat of day she hid on the rooftops of manses, the only place where no darkness could touch her until evenfall. The night markets of Qarth had been a blessing, a place of refuge and secrets and lights in the dread-filled dark. No one asked questions at the markets.

Those dark nights, even with the glow of torches and candles, had felt heavy. Every shifting shadow made her gasp. She could hear his laboured breaths in passing breezes. She could feel his heat against her body when a stranger stood too close. The bite wound in her leg throbbed and her chest always felt one breath away from collapse each time Daenerys’ cold and vengeful face came into her memory.

The night madness began not soon after. Sleep had become necessary once again. Yet rest was elusive. Her dreams were cursed with memories and visions of choices she had made, and not made. They played ugly pantomimes of betrayals, they blasted her with guilt and shame. But what she felt the most was terror. In the beginning, she had not known what to make of the cold sweat covering her skin nor the painful pounding of her heart or the way she woke gasping for air with tears drenching her cheeks. Some nights still she had woken hoarse. Those times had left her feeling ill and uncomfortable without sure reason.

But that lasted only until the dreams were remembered as she awoke. Once her recollection of the contents of her nightmares had made themselves known, it only grew worse. Night brought with it pure terror.

Dragons’ talons flayed her skin away; black, green, and blood red, they had seared her hands and feet, ripped out her tongue, violated her most intimately with claw and tail. Blue skeletons and ghosts screeched for her in Irri’s voice and tore at her throat, suffocated her beneath their chilling powerful hands. Lumbering black giants had done similar, melting her with poisonous wet breath like acid and wrapped her limbs in heavy chains. The worst was always the end. Sometimes it was in a bed, sometimes a black cave but the light always appeared. Sparkling and breathtakingly beautiful, a maiden with white hair in the darkest of times and from a distance, she was hope itself. Yet as it drew closer, the mare had eyes red and black and terrible, intently focused on her target, and raging infernos followed in her wake. Doreah burned alive night after night.

It was almost a blessing when all she felt was the empty hopelessness and dread of that cold black hole at dusk. Sometimes it had just been a dark, oily mist slowly coming for her and she was powerless to flee, to move. It swallowed her being whole. Those were the mornings when she found herself unable to crawl from whatever corner she had found to sleep in and would lie for hours wroth in self-pity and bleak despair. Yet with the fire dreams, she could never fall back asleep. She could never bear to stay still. She always ran after one of those.

Such terrors had been kept to the night hours since Khal Jhaqo had given her a place in his _khalasar_ but when Daenerys had arrived, they began following her during the daylight, hanging about shadows and setting Doreah on edge at all times. She saw flashbacks in broad daylight drifting in front of her eyes, making her feel as if she was back in Qarth, or Volantis, or Braavos, again. Haga called it _karabhasi_ and no multitude of brews and chants had relieved Doreah of her burden. Dark places were worst so the stars and breezes of the Dothraki Sea had afforded her some peace. The night madness rarely stalked her when the moon was bright and the glimmer of stars crisp. She had kept her nightmares away from her fellow slaves, preferring to suffer alone but as the nights grew so cold she no longer could lie under the open sky.

The chilling rain was too much and Daenerys’ offer of warmth unbearably promising. The storm and the darkness had come for her though. She had no explanation for her actions upon being woken, just that she was so scared and Daenerys was there, safe, warm and her blue eyes so very different from the wrathful ones of the  _karabhasi_ . She just wanted it to cease. She was so very tired of running.

Now, as lightning flashed, all Doreah saw in front of her was that mare with eyes of hate. She hated Daenerys in return. She would never accept the truth that Doreah did not wish harm on the dragons, or the  _khaleesi_ , that she had no other choice. That she was just a stupid craven girl from a pillow house who knew nothing else but that which she was raised to be. She was trying to protect her  _khaleesi_ ; she had just been too cowardly to die doing so.

Daenerys’ expression shifted from confusion to something else, darker and more bewildering. Doreah knew there were tears. She could feel them hot and bitter, seeping out of her eyes but the rain kept them hidden from the young queen.  _I didn’t want to die. You wanted me to. You ordered my death in the worst way possible without allowing me even a true word._

Anger sparked anew as Dany stood there, silent and pensive in the storm.

“Doreah,” Dany echoed again as if sensing the turmoil brewing. Her body shuddered in the cold. 

There were clammy hands cradling her jaw as blue eyes searched for some meaning, some hope. She would never be certain what Dany had seen there but it provoked a hard pull as their lips met once again. So warm even in frigidity of the night rain. Blood boiled in her gut as she opened her mouth, gulping in heat like a starving animal. Rather than hearing it, she felt the groan under her fingertips, under her lips. Her throat tightened in response, allowing a soft strangled moan to flutter up from the recesses of her soul. Every drop of rain felt juxtaposed to the feeling in her body and the way it warmed with Daenerys’ touch.

Eyes squeezed tight against the assault of water, she heard it first. It was that crackling of distant flame as Daenerys kissed her, hard and relentlessly, as she remained helpless and desperate for more. Her vision flared with blood-red eyes and silver hair and roaring fire; it seared her skin and her guts boiled inside her chest, frothing up her throat to choke her on her own life’s blood and scorched by stifling smoke. Black eyes, red eyes, green, white, black. Giants and ghosts clamouring for freedom, guilt thick as tar. The  _karabhasi._ Doreah pushed away roughly, gasping in a staccatoed breath as a threatening grimace overcame her face. 

Her shoulders slumped. She felt ashamed, she felt unworthy, she felt less than human once more. She  _was_ more than a whore, more than her body, more than her sins she attempted to remind herself. Rising vomit burgeoned the back of her mouth with acrid bile. Hate was stronger than love. 

And Doreah hated  _so very much_ .

Daenerys. The night madness. Those dragons. Qarth. Xaro. Khal Jhaqo. Viserys. Her mother. Every man she had even been forced to lie with against her will. It slipped from her own mind that perhaps the person she hated most was herself.

Cloaked in disgust, she hastily shoved Daenerys aside and strode purposefully to a nearby  _okre_ of one of Jhaqo’s  _ko_ . Without a second glance to the blonde slave standing alone in the rain, she pushed her way inside.

 

 

Doreah was no stranger to nakedness. She had more than half her life shedding her clothing for strange men to gaze upon her body, for them to touch her wherever they pleased, to stand on display like nothing more than a pretty flower: nice to look for a while at but inherently disposable. Her body was bare but even then, shivering without a shred of cloth to cover her modesty and shaking under the depraved stares of men, she never truly felt naked. She had her armour: her dreams and her unshakable resolve to never let them see her fear or vulnerability or shame; she would not let any number of men or piles of gold rip her remaining dignity away. It was all she had. To be truly naked would be weakness.

Despite all her posturing, as a grown woman only once had she been stripped bare and exposed for exactly who she was. The ugliness, the tenderness, the cowardice, the vulnerability, the _fear_. All of it had been shown to one person, the only person in the entire world she had ever trusted with that fragility. Not only had it ruined them both, it ultimately had been used against her. Her worst fears made real, made visible.

That had been an entirely different kind of nakedness. It was raw and terrible. For her, the exposure she had felt on the inside of love was worse than being forcibly taken in front of a crowd of Dothraki screamers, worse than being forced to choke down the seed of disgusting men day after day, worse than being reduced to a mere object, worse than the constant parade of degrading acts she had to perform on a nightly basis in Lys, all those many acts that she had to own as _hers_ just to get through them.

Even as a child, she had quickly learned to cope, to separate what she felt in her heart from everything that touched her, everything that attempted to mark her as broken. And it did break her, repeatedly, until she was nothing more than a shattered skeleton of what should have been a smiling child, hopeless, dwelling only in the perpetual twilight of walled-in pillow houses. For many years she had toiled on plush linens confused, angry, locked into shame and despair with stinging pains between her legs and blood on her sheets. But throughout all of it, night after horrible night, she had stories. She had her escape in dreams. Within her soul dwelled a child of resilience, perfumed by the faintest scent of hope.

 _The men can take your body but never your dreams, little one_. Her sisters had taught her that, all the tethered daughters of Lys. _Fly. Fly away, even if it’s only inside._

Every man and every woman, with their demanding touches and sloppy kisses and grating moans, all of those exploits had just been her body. Each one was something that happened to it. Her body was a simple tool, like a smith wields his hammer or a knight his longsword. She was a whore, and that would not be used against her; she would not allow it. They would not own her soul by simply owning her body.

And that had worked well for years. Learning to accept her position, to enjoy what small control she possessed, to _excel_ at it was power of a sort. She was skilful and desired. Men paid impressive amounts to use her and that alone was something of pride for a slave such as she was. Not as much as Irogenia or even the greatest courtesans of Braavos, but an ample amount all the same. All the while as she moaned and thrust, she was separate from her body, shielded by her armour and that walls she had built inside.

Love, though… _love_ tore away that very armour and burned the walls to ash. It violated more than just her body. It stared down her soul and left her utterly defenseless. She felt shame for what she had been, she felt insignificant, she felt fear, she felt like a craven. Yet with all that came something else entirely. Opening up and allowing another person to see that scared little 9-year-old girl felt like a peculiar freedom. An _unburdening_. She had never been allowed such a thing since her mother pried small fingers off the sandsilk gown and apathetically thrust her daughter towards the old man who smelt of too much oud and jasmine.

Daenerys always smelt of lightly fragrant herbs and fresh air, with a faint musk of smoke. Never over-powering, never too much. When they would lie together, Doreah could have spent hours nestled alongside her naked body, just breathing her in although that chance had never been afforded her. She could still recall the taste of Daenerys’ skin on her tongue. She could still recall the way her body trembled uncontrollably under the _khaleesi_ ’s fingertips as the final piece of armour fell away and with it, such a heavy weight lifted.

Somewhere within the chaotic whirlwind of Khal Drogo’s death and the Red Waste and Qarthian vaults, Doreah’s body had become hers again; it had been given back to her with tender touches, whispered sighs, and hungry kisses. Yet in exchange her soul had been exposed… and stolen away. Of course, sometimes she truly believed that she had given it away willingly.

Then, some time later, due both to circumstance and poor decisions, she and her very soul itself had been scoured by fire and vengeance until she lay bleeding in the dark, stalked by a murderous spice merchant, himself a personification of her own hulking dark greed. Alone she cringed tattered, starved, and utterly bare. An empty shell. Just as the hollow vault itself. A body without a soul.

She had spent 15 years resisting such disclosure and such weakness. She had railed against the theft of soul. Daenerys had found the weak spot once, but Doreah eventually survived that and regained what she needed. She would spend another 15 years preserving her own soul, if not her body.

 

But now with each passing day, she felt that tenuous hold slipping. Daenerys was as persistent and stubborn as she always had been, even when she wasn’t trying. That was precisely what was so infuriating about her. No matter if she was wrong or right, she never knew when to give up. It was a blessing of her lack of foresight. Worst of all, she never understood exactly what she was even doing or the effect it would have, as two nights previous in the rain had proved. And her methods—her weapons—were more than dragons and threatening words. Love was a devious serpent that sneaked up in the dark and nibbled away slowly, almost imperceptibly until it was too late. Love had spidered through Doreah’s soul, turning it to fractured crystal: beautiful at first, purposeful artistry even—until at the last moment, before anyone could expect, just one more tap and it fell spectacularly to pieces, sharp shards of glass tearing spirit apart.

The cracks had begun that night Daenerys laid her head on Doreah’s scarred shoulder. Although it perhaps would be more accurate to trace the growing vulnerability back to the moment Tolui pulled back the bloody blanket to reveal the unconscious silverblonde girl. She only grew weaker afterwards. Soon, the crystal shield would shatter and Dany would see it all—everything Doreah had stowed away in the dark hidden caverns of her mind: all the hatred and hurt, all the memories of suffering, the betrayals, motivations; all the grief and guilt, and especially that terrible wriggling feeling of concern (if not love itself) that had never completely vanished despite her most dogged efforts. And nothing could be worse than Dany seeing that love once again.

All would be laid bare. However, unlike before, Doreah could no longer trust Daenerys to be gentle with what she found. She could not risk such naivety.

Shivering despite the warm air, Doreah ran a finger over the newly healed wound on her upper arm and noted with curiosity the slow burning ache it triggered between her legs.

_I never wanted any of this. It was not supposed to be this way._

Long ago, it had meant to be her following her _khaleesi_ through the seven hells and back, taking over Westeros with dragons, making men pay for the evils they had unleashed on the world. She was not supposed to be fucking men to save her life, nor drudging through each day as nothing more than a worthless slave. She blamed Daenerys for this.

And the hate was still strong.

But it was faltering more often.

What scared her most of all was the desire to seek out Dany and just sit, as they used to many years ago. Or even crawl under furs together and lie with limbs entangled, peaceful and oblivious to everything else in the world, at least for a few hours. And as frightened as she was by the prospect, a small part of her soul just wished to be unburdened as it had been before, regardless of the consequences…

Instead she ran to Bataar, or Yollo, or Luko, or any one of the many, many riders, but stayed away now from the _khal_. She fucked them all for the chance to rest peaceful in their beds if just for a moment (A truly restful sleep had escaped her since Qarth). She would not allow herself to feel any shame in this and she pushed any semblance of it deep down, ignoring what the guilt implied. She avoided Dany at every opportunity; scorned her when they were forced to meet, and had done so more vigorously since the night in the rainstorm. She shoved all thoughts of fair hair and soft hands from her mind; she banished all memories and longings.

None of these men wanted her for a wife. None of them wanted _her_ at all. Not the way Tolui wanted Varo at least. In the _khalasar_ , especially being Jhaqo’s concubine, she was unfit for marriage. A despoilt woman, they said. A bedslave, only good for mounting and fighting. They appreciated her services and skills, but it conferred no special praise any longer. She merely did what women were best suited to and much more often than most others. That kind of thinking was necessary in order to maintain her availability to the _khal_. There was no love for her to find; Jhaqo had seen to that over the years.

 

Around her, Lako and Qaharah boasted about the day’s hunt and all the other men roared in appreciation and laughter. It was loud though it was only a matter of time until one, or more, of them grabbed her arm and dragged her aside to pleasure themselves with her body. For the first time in many moons, she winced outwardly at the prospect despite putting herself in such a position. Even when she had left Daenerys in the rain to seek shelter in Lako’s bed, she had not felt near as weary.

She was so tired. Just so tired of it all.

When Tolui anxiously emerged nearby, Doreah felt relief more than apprehension. There was a great deal of fiery Dothraki argument back and forth between Tolui and Yollo, and Qaharah occasionally chiming in with a derogatory comment or an unwelcome touch. The younger girl swatted off his hands and adamantly insisted on Doreah’s company. Reluctantly, Yollo shook his head and waved them both away, throwing a disgusting jibe at the courtesan in the process.

As they walked back across the large _khalasar_ , the older girl finally found her voice. “What is it, Lu?”

Tolui shrugged her shoulders. “You should not be with them tonight.”

“Why?” Her nightly excursions had never been an issue in the past.

There was no verbal response but Doreah could understand one all the same. The roll of brown eyes, even visible in the faint light from bonfires. The stiff posture. The way Tolui would not meet her gaze.

 _It is obvious_ , she saw in the body language. _Toki_.

The coldness was becoming somewhat manageable now. After days of barely speaking with Tolui, Doreah was finding herself becoming accustomed to pointed glares and unspoken complaints. She missed her friend terribly but there was little she could think to do in order to restore the trust that had been broken.

Doreah had lied, or told a version of the truth that left out important details. There was no argument. Haga had already berated her for such foolishness and Doreah had stomped out of the _okre_ with little more than a rude dismissive wave at the old woman. Everyone was against her, and it was growing worse the longer Daenerys stayed. Apologies would be of little use and Tolui, still ripe with the sting of broken trust, was unlikely to entertain them anyway. She and Daenerys were alike in that regard it seemed and frankly the Lyseni had no patience to placate irrational girls any longer.

She survived before Tolui’s friendship and would continue after. There were many other friends to be had, more her age and more wise to the ways of the world. Briefly she wondered what Kushi was doing at the moment. Perhaps she would enjoy some company.

Stubbornness was not a trait she had been blessed with at birth—not the same as Tolui or Daenerys or Irri. When she was young, Doreah gave in easily and forgave even easier. It was the only way to ensure she would be able to spend time with her mother or brothers, none of whom appeared to care much for the skinny girl living amongst them. If she had held grudges against mistreatment, she would have been perpetually lonely. However, at the age of 9, her life shifted and warped beyond recognition. And her ability to toss slights aside and refuse to hold grudges worked well in her profession. A successful whore could not hold the men accountable for their tastes or their abuses. She needed an open mind to match her open legs. Instead, she funnelled it all into one place—against the woman that gave her over to such a place.

Eventually it spilled over to the pleasure house. She felt twinges of hatred towards the master, towards particular visitors, to one of the other girls. But never as high in intensity and certainly nothing compared to the experiences after Viserys Targaryen bought her for his sister. Life showed her that being hard was necessary, that forgiveness was weak. She learnt from Irri and Jorah and Drogo and Xaro and Daenerys most of all…

Now forgiveness was a concept best left to barren women to moan on about. It was for stories and songs and children. It served no purpose in adult life. Steel (of nerves, hearts and blades) got her what she needed, not softness.

Tolui appeared to feel the same.

They said nothing more. Once they would have filled the silences with laughter and stories, gossip and idle talk. Now all they shared was uncomfortable sullenness.

When the girls arrived back at Subi’s tent, the cooking pit was empty and all the slaves had retired for the night. Puzzled, Doreah looked to Tolui for explanation. Surely the girl did not take her from the riders merely out of concern for her well-being. When they had been friends, such things had never happened so it seemed even less likely now.

Without a word, Tolui glared at the blue-eyed slave and turned her back. In moments, she had disappeared into the interior of the tent.

“You should apologise,” a voice said from somewhere in the shadows. Doreah squinted at the darkness. She knew whom the sound belonged to, yet she could not make out the body.

“Leave it be,” she said to the night. “What business is it of yours besides?”

Finally she found the source, almost hidden from view by mounds of pelts and blankets. But the whiteblonde hair was unmistakable. Daenerys was curled up on Doreah’s bedroll outside the _okre_. It incensed the Lysene girl more than she could say.

“I know the pain of your lies, Doreah. Now too does Tolui.”

Doreah marched up to Dany and stood over her. It was meant to be intimidating but the younger girl gave no indication that it was. “Out. You don’t belong here.”

Dany sat up, pushing the blanket down. “And you do? Sleeping outside like a mongrel dog?” She stared up unflinchingly. “First you sleep outside like a dog, then act like one—running all over snapping at everyone, deserving or no. Pissing all over everything important. Lying with anything with a cock.”

The words sounded horribly wrong coming from Daenerys. Never once had the dragon queen ever spoken so freely or so crudely. It did not even sound like her at all. The truth remained the same, as metaphorical as some of it was. Doreah briefly considered what strange stories were circulating about her these days.

“Get off my bedroll,” Doreah warned again, her fingers toying with the Dothraki dagger on her belt. Perhaps outside she appeared defiant and possessed. Inside however she quivered. It was her worst fears taking hold: Daenerys was stripping everything away, showing Doreah the ugly reflection she refused to accept.

Slowly and calmly, the blonde moved out from under the thin blanket and rose to her feet, glancing down at Doreah’s hand wrapped around the handle of the blade. Moving closer, Daenerys sighed and the brunette felt the breeze against her skin and the heat surrounding them. Everything felt as it was crumbling inside her chest, falling in huge broken pieces, leaving only the billowing dust to take up the emptiness. It was like those days when the land itself would heave and shake, knocking over lean-tos and frightening the horses. Except no one else felt the tremors this time; the lean-tos were still, the horses were asleep and it was only Doreah that was terrified.

Daenerys found little resistance when she pushed up on her toes and touched her lips against Doreah’s. It was possible that the brunette could not have resisted even if she had truly wanted to. Her nerves were shot and her entire body trembled as if cracking into bits. She relented easily, shuddering as she felt Dany’s warm mouth sliding over her own.

Part of her soul grasped tightly onto its defences but with each touch and each movement, the grip was loosening. The hand that had been so tightly wound around the hilt of her dagger was now clinging to another woman’s Dothraki roughspun.

“Just apologise,” came the whisper against her lips. Doreah loathed the way even the idea alone provoked wetness to well up in the corners of her eyes. Blinking them away she grabbed at Daenerys again, angling their bodies even closer and sucking out any remaining sighs of regret.

It was not enough. Nothing was ever enough any longer. Once again, as they broke contact, Daenerys groaned. “Apologise.”

There was no chance Doreah was going to stop what she was doing to wake Tolui for a heartfelt apology. It was madness. Despite her dismissal, each time she heard the word echoed in her muddled mind, more tears threatened to fall and she quaked harder in her own skin. Then she noticed she was not alone in that.

 

_Naked. The both of us._

 

It all fell to her feet. Her entire empire of lies and obstinacy and indifference was ripped away from her and burned to dust with whispered demands and hot kisses. She was left vulnerable and weak once again, nothing more than scared little girl, nothing more than a lost handmaid, nothing but an insecure whore. Tears broke free.

“I’m sorry. Forgive me,” she whimpered at last between kisses and that’s when she felt Daenerys shiver and move to brush away the tear with her lips before pulling tighter, kissing her much more insistently—a memory of so, so many moons ago.

It was then that Doreah realised that the weight had lifted. And she was terrified.

Her breath was stolen. Moving back from warm lips, she oriented herself again. Daenerys was studying her with curiousity. “This is not…” She wrapped her arms around herself, putting distance between them. The yearning in her body was so strong she had to dig her nails into the soft flesh of her own arms in order to resist. “We cannot.”

It wasn’t about the barren women’s talk of curses nor Khal Jhaqo’s decree that no one was to touch her. Doreah could not care less about the superstitious Dothraki impositions. The queen was no longer ill with the Pale Mare and the _khalasar_ had been spared from plague for the moment. Doreah simply could not foresee any benefit greater than the risk. The familiar spark of anger began to swell and overshadow the previous soft touches; it began to once again fortify the wall she needed so badly. It was a terrible reflex but one that prevented herself from giving in to more fragile needs, those desires she felt most strongly.

“You have no rights to me any longer. I belong to the _khalasar_.”

“You belong to no one.” Daenerys frowned with a small hint of confusion at Doreah’s sudden turn of attitude.

“You most especially.” _I was once yours, in body and soul. You repaid that with a locked vault and perpetual darkness_.

Doreah knew well how possessive the blonde could be, even of things she had no claim to and certainly no power over. She was very much the shadow of her brother in that regard. The words had their intended impact and she sensed the stiffening of Daenerys’ spine. Not everything she wanted could be hers and the Lyseni considered the words she had previously imparted on Tolui.

 

 _It is merely her loneliness that compels her to me. If this had been her_ khalasar _I stumbled upon, no mercy would have been bestowed let alone any love. If Khal Drogo was alive here as well, she would not even give me a second glance. This is merely her own mummer’s farce_. Doreah vowed to constantly remind herself of that reality. Elsewise Daenerys’ touch would be her undoing.

 

 

 

 


End file.
